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(2> 



GIFT OF 
MISS. ESTHER BERKEIET 




/" 



Z^t Cam&rttige ^tt^ 



BROWNING 

MRS. BROWNING 

BURNS 

BYRON 

DRYDEN 

ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH 

POPUUR bal'lads 

HOLMES 

KEATS 

LONGFELLOW 

LOWELL 

MILTON 

POPE 

SCOTT 

SHAKESPEARE 

SHELLEY 

SPENSER 

TENNYSON 

WHITTIER 

WORDSWORTH 



CHAUCER 



£JsUi/ by 

Horace £. Scudder 
Harriet Waters Preston 
W. E. Henley 
Paul £. More 
George R. No yes 
Helen Child Sargent 
) George L. Kittreoge 
Horace £. Scudder 
Horace £. Scudder 
Horace E. Scudder 
Horace £. Scudder 
William Vaughn Moody 
Henry W. Boynton 
Horace £. Scudder 
W. A. Neilson . 
George £. Woodberry 
R. £. Neil Dodge 
William J. Rolfe 
Horace £. Scudder 
A. J. George 

In Preparation 

F. N. Robinson 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Boston New York Chicago 



4^ C^iinIn:fii0t ^bitioti of tfyt f^ottjf 



TENNYSON 



EDITED BY 



W. J. ROLFE 



fn^Jt^l 



Mi M II 



THE POETIC AND 

DRAMATIC WORKS^F ALFRED 

LORD TENNYSON 




!f,«-™^i< .A/i <^i*lyA/- 



BOSTON AND NEW VORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

4bt Bite tiHt yctW tfmbnitc 






CDPYKIGHT, 1898, BY HOUGHTON, MtPFUM AND CO. 
▲IX SIGHTS RSSSaVBO 



15^1^ 



HARVARD 
i'liNlVERSITY 
1 iipoARY 



L 



" 97 1^7f> 



PUBLISHERS' NOTE 

Ih 1842, when TennysoD pablished in England the two yolames which marked 
die beginning of his great fame, the predecessors in America of the present pub- 
lishers reiaened the Tolames, and from that year until 1880 they and their succee- 
•ore eontinued to publish by arrangement the volumes of poetry and drama which 
appeared from time to time. The present Cambridge edition contains this body 
of Tenev and other poems published later than that date, and includes moreover 
IB the Appendix the pieces from '' Poems by Two Brothers" assigned to Alfred 
TennytoD, together with the poems from the volumes of 1830 and 1833 and other 
■ourcea, which have for the most part continued to have currency in America, 
though dropped from collective editions in England. 

Tlfte volume has been edited by Dr. W. J. Rolf e in general conformity with the 
prerioos volumes of the series of ^ Cambridge " poets. The editor has brought to 
his task a long familiarity with the poetry, as evidenced by the several separate 
works of Tennyson which he has edited both for school use and for the general 
mder. In this comprehensive work he has given special attention to the text» 
which in the body of the volume has been made to follow, with moet careful 
fevision of minor details such as punctuation, the most authoritative form, and in 
the Earlier Poems in the Appendix has been compared as far as possible with the 
original issues and not with later reprints. 

Lord Tennyson, as is well known, subjected his poems to frequent revision, and 
ti!e editor has therefore, in addition to giving the authoritative text with scrupu- 
kms care, collated the volumes of 1830 and 1833 (in the library of the British 
Moseom), the edition of 1842, and all others to which he has had access, and has 
reeorded in his notes all the various readings of any importance or interest which 
he has detected. For most of the poems this collation has never been attempted 
by any other editor or commentator. The editor has also, both in his notes and in 
the several introductions and brief prefaces, made a thorough bibliographical study 
of the poetry, so that the reader is now able to trace with great exactness the his- 
tory ol Tennyson's work. For information concerning the origin of some of the 
poems, or the allusions oontained in them, the editor is indebted to the ** Memoir/' 
and has made due acknowledgment in the Notes. 

BonoM, 4 Famk SftMExt, Aagwt 1, 1898. 



*»# 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



WAam 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . u 

TO THE QUEEN 1 

JUVENILIA, 

Clabibel 3 

nothivo will dib .... 3 

All Thimos will dim ... 4 

Lboxinb Elboiacs .... 4 
tivrroBED CoKTSBsioKs or A Sbookd- 

BATE SBMUTITB MiMD ... 4 

Tui: Kbaebb 6 

Soxo : * The wixds, as at thbir 

BOt'B or BIBTH * . . . . 7 

LtLiAjr 7 

Iaabbl 7 

MAUIAlfA 8 

To 9 

Madelutb 9 

S>Mo: The Owl .... 9 

Secoxd Sovo. to tbe Same . 10 
Reoollectiovs or tub Arabiab ^ 

Nioimi 10 

Ode to Memobt »^ ... 11 
Sono : ' A irauT baumts thb TEAB*8 

LAST HOCBS* 13 

A rHABACTBB 13 

The Pobt 14 

The Pobt*s Mikd .14 

The Sba-Faibie« .... 10 
The Dbebbted Housb •^ . .10 

Tbe Ihrivo Swab . ^ . 16 

A DiBOE 16 

Love abd Death .... 17 

The Ballad or Obiaba ... 17 

ClBCCMETABCE 18 

The Mbbmab 18 

The Mebmaid 19 

ADELniB 90 

Maboabbt 90 

robalibd 31 

Elbabobb 22 

Kate 23 

* Mt ufb m ruLL or wbabt date* 94 

EaBLT SOBBBTl. 

L To .... 94 

IL To J. M. K. . . . M 



HL * MnrB bk the etbsvoth 
or BPiBiT, ruLL abd 
rBBE* .... 91 

IV. Alezabdeb j» . . 25 

V. BUONAPABTE > • • .25 

VI. POLABD ... . 25 

VII. * CABEflS*D OB CBIDDBB BY 

THB BLENDEB BABD * 25 
VUI. *ThB rOBM, THE rOBM 

ALOBE IB ELO(|UBNT * . 26 
IX. * WaB BCULPTOB, WEErBET 
THOU TO TAEE THE 
CAST* ... 26 

X. *Ir I WBBELOVEDtAfllDB- 
BIBB TO BE* .26 

XI. Thb Bbidesmaid . 26 

THE LADY OP SHALOTT, AND 
OTHER POEMS. 
Thb Ladt or Shalott ... 27 

MaBIABA IB THE ikHJTH . . . 29 

The Two Voices .... 30 
The Mxllbr*b Daughteb ... 35 

Fatima 38 

CEkone .... 38 

The Sutebe 49 

To 42 

The Palace or Abt » ... 43 

Ladt Claba Vbbe de Vebb ' • •46 

The Mat Queeb .... 47 

New-Yeab*8 Eve .... 48 

CoNCLt^moN 49 

The Lotob-Eatebs -51 

Cbobk Sobo .... 51 
A Dbbam or Pajb Womeb • 53 

The Blacbbibd .... 58 
The Dbath or the Old Yeab . 58 

To J. S. 69 

On a Moubbeb 60 

*y0u aek mb, why, tho' ill at 

EASE* 60 

*0r OLD EAT FbEEDOM ON THB 

HEIGHTS* 60 

*L0TE THOU THT LAND, WITH LOTB 

rAB-BBOCGHT* .... 61 

Ebolabd abd Ambbica oi 1783 . • 
TkB Goou 



CONTENTS 



XKOUSH n>TI^ AND OTHER POEMS. 

Thm Sno • • ^ • • • • €S 
MoBTK d*Abtrub .^ . • • 64 
Thb Gabdsmkb's Dauobtxb y • 68 

Dora 72 

audlxt coubt 74 

Wauuko to thb Mail ... 70 
Edwik Mobbu . i^ . • .77 

Saiht Sdcbon Sttutbs ... 79 
Thb Tauuko Oak .... 82 
LoYB AND Duty .... 85 
Thb Goldbm Ybab .87 

Ultmbs . . v< . . • 88 

TiTBONUS 89 

liOCKALBT Hall ^c^ ... 90 
Gqdiya . . • . . • .96 

Thb Dat-Drbam 

Pboloovb 96 

Thb Slbbpino Palacb f 96 

Thb Slbbfino Bbautt • . .97 
Thb Abbiyal .... 97 
Thb Rbviyal .... 97 
Thb Dbpabtitbb ... 98 

MOBAL 98 

L* Envoi 98 

Epilooub 99 

Amfhion . . ^. 99 

Saint Aonbs' Eyb v . . .100 
Sib Galahad . .^ . . .101 
Edwabd Gbat » . .102 

Will WATBBPBOor*t Ltrical Mon^ 

OLOOUB 102 

Ladt Clabb 105 

Thb Captain 106 

The Lobd or Burlbioh . .107 

Thb Votaob .... . ^ 108 
SiB Launcelot and Qubbn Gurf 

EYBRB 109 

A Farewbll 109 

The Bbgoab Maid . v • • HO 
The Eagle 110 

'MOYBBABTWABD, HAPPTBAKTH* . 110 

'Comb not, when I am dead' . 110 

The Lettebs 110 

The Vision of Sin . . .111 

To , AFTBB BEADING A LlVE AND 

Letters 114 

To E. L., ON HIS Trayels in Gbbege 114 

' BbBAK, BBBAK^ BBEAK ' . .115 

The Poet's Song . . . .115 

•rHE PRINCESS ; A MEDLEY. 

Pbologub 115 

Thb Pbincbss 119 

Intbblctdb 142 

OOVOUTSION • • • • • 160 



IK BfEMORIAM A. H. H. . • .168 
MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. 

BiAUD ; A MONODBAMA *^ , . . 196 

The Bbook 217 

Thb Daist 221 

To the Rby. F. D. BCaubics . 222 

Will 223 

Ode on the Death or the Duke or 

Wellington . r . .223 

The Chabgb or THE Light Bbigadb 226 

ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS. 

Enoch Abdbn .• . . • .227 
Atlmbb*s Field j^ . . . . 240 

Sea Dbbams 252 

Ode bung at the Opening or the 

Intebnational Exhibition '^' . 257 
A Weloomb to Alezandba '^. . 257 
The Gbandmotheb ... 258 

NORTHBBN FaBMBB; OLD STYLE . 260 

NOBTHERN FaBMBB; NEW STYLE . 262 

In THE Valley or Cautebetz . 264 

The Floweb 264 

Requiescat 364 

Thb Sailob Boy .... 265 

The Islet 265 

A Dedication 265 

ezpebiments. 

boadicba 266 

In Quantity 

On Translations or Homes 267 
Milton v' . •268 

' O YOU CHOBus or indolent 

BBYIEWEBS* 268 

Specimkn or a Translation 

or THB luAD nr Blank 

Vbbsb .... 268 

The Third or Febbuaby, 1852 . 269 

A Welcome to Hbb Royal Highness 

Mabdb Alezandboyna, Duchess or 

Edinbuboh 270 

In the Gabdbn at Swainston . 270 

Child Songs. 

I. The City Child . .271 

n. Minnie and Winnie 271 

The SpFTBruL Lbttbb . . . .271 

Litbbary Squabbles .... 272 

The Victim 272 

Wages 273 

The Highbb Panthkism .... 273 
The Voice and the Peak ... 274 
* Flower IN THB crannied wall' . .274 
Lucretius 274 

THE WINDOW; OR. THE SONG OF THE 
WRENS. 
The Window 

On THB Hill • • • • 879 



At thb Wmtow 



SniKo . 
Tks Lbtthi 

No Avnrui . 
No Axawui 



IDTU£ OF THE KINQ. 
DaDfCAnoH 

Tax CoKiHo or Axtbdk 
Tkk Rixnn> Tablk. 

OuuTB joro Ltncttb 

1^ MUOUAO* OF QeBjUXT 

Obbaict akd EaiD , 

btUK Alfb B*LAK 

Haaux ako VmBif 

LutcstOT AXS Elains 

Tb» Hoi,r Obail . 

PUXIU AHD EtTAHKK ' 

'Tms Ljut TockitAicBHr 
OcQfsraui 
Tm {"AMisd or AB-ncDR 

To TM Qcwi , 

BALLADS, AXD OTBEB POEMS. 
To AurmxD Tnnrrwv. mr aMA]n>- 



Tai Pasr QcABux .... 41 

RUTAM Ij 

Th> NoanuMx Cobblxh . , « 

Tia Rbtsmob 4; 

TasSWTKM* « 

Tbl> ViLuas Wira . . . « 
br "nn Cilp»mi'« Hocfttal . . V 

DaiHCATORT POBM TO TKK PHIVOIM 

Tki hsTBvcB or LccBKoir .- . t 

Sn JOKM OLDCA«nB, L(MU> COBHA> 1 

Thb Votaqi or Habliipbb . 4 

Dm PsorciiDta 

Tbb Two Ouktoob . .41 

Tkb Hqxax Car ... 41 



Tto VkmbHvoo . 



TBANil^TIONS, 1 

ACBlLUCa OVBK THE I'bEKCH . 
To PBdCBBI FbSDBKICA OH HK 

Uareiaob 

81 H JOHH FkAKKUB 
To DtMTK . 



TIRESIAS, AMD OTHER POEMS. 
ToE. FmoMtutiJt 

Tb« Wbbcb ' . 

Thb Ami^ibmt Saob 

Tbb Puubt , 

To-MosRow 

Tub SFmrrBB'H Swbbt^abtb • . SOS 

Tbb Cbauob or tub IIiatt Bm- 

OADB AT BAIAClJtVA. 

Pboumdk: to GEiru-ju. Ham- 

LBT ... . . aoe 

Thk Cbahob . . . . eOQ 
Efilooitb ftlO 

To VlRGU. OU 

Thb Dead Prophbt . . Sia 

ILarlt Srsrao SIS 

PsBTATOBT PoBM TO MT BrOTMU'I 

SonniB 014 

'Fratbk Ate ATQCiK Vale' . S14 

HKI.Ea'B TOWBB . . . . GU 

EriTAPB OH Lord Stbattobd ob 

Rbdcutte . • . . . MB 

EpiTApa OH Gehkbal OoRDoa ' . fiia 

rplTAPB OB CaXTON . . . SU 

To TBR Dthe or Aboiu. ' . . StS 
tUxM Au. Boon . . . . SU 

PtUtEDOK SIS 

Poet* ahd tbeib Bibuoobaphiki 61« 
To H. R. n. Pkihcebi Bbatricr . BIT 
LOCKSI.EY HALL SIXTY YEARS AF- 
TER, ETC. 

LOTKSLET HaI.1. SmTT YejI 



.SIT 



Tub Fleet 

Opknixh or thb Ihtiuk akd t'oui- 

lOAL ExBIBmOH BT TBB QnCBH S8S 

To W. C. HACBEAor . . . . oas 
DEHETER. AND OTHER POEUS. 
To THB Uabqcis or DcmuH ahq 

Ata SS6 

Oh the Ji-sileb or QrcKV Vioro- 

BiA . B27 

To PBorBnoB Jebii . . . . im 
Dehbtbh ahd Pbb«bpruhb . S28 

OWD Ro* B30 



• •• 

vm 



CONTENTS 



Thb Riko 5»4 

FOBIiOKK M2 

Happt 64a 

To ULT88E8 M6 

To Mabt Boyle 547 

The Pboorbss or Spbino . • 548 

MSBUN AND THE GLEAM . . . 550 

RoMifET*8 Rehouse ... 551 

PABVA88U8 554 

By an Evolutionist ... 554 

Old Age 554 

Fab— FAB— AWAY .... 656 

Politics 555 

Beautitul City .... 555 
The Roses on the Teubacb . . 555 

The Play 555 

On one who affected an Effemi- 
nate Manneb .... 55G 

To ONE WHO BAN DOWN THE ENG- 
LISH 656 

The Snowdbop 556 

The Thbostlb .... 656 

The Oak 656 

In Memobiam W. Q. Wabd . . 556 

QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA . . 657 

HAROLD: A DRAMA. 

Show-day at Battle Abbey, 1876 622 
Uabold 623 

BECKET 659 

THE FALCON 708 

THE CUP 717 

THE PROMISE OF MAY ... 731 
CROSSING THE BAR . . . .753 
APPENDIX. 

L Selections fbom * Poems by Two 
Bbothebs.* 

Mbmoby 755 

The Exile*s Habp ... 736 
•Why should we weep fob 

THOSE WHO die ? ' . . .756 

Remobse 756 

The Dell of E . . . 757 

Antony to Cleopatra . . 758 
*i wandeb in dabkness and 

SOBBOW* 758 

The Old Sword ... 759 

* We MEET NO MORE* . .759 
WbTTTEN BY AN ExiUi OF BaS- 
SOBAH 759 

The Vale of Bones . . 760 

' Did NOT THY BOSEATE LIPS OUT- 
VIE ' 761 

PSBSIA 761 

SoTPT 76B 



n. 
m. 



Trs Dbuid'8 Pbophecibb . • 763 
The Expedition of Nadib Shah 

INTO HiNDOSTAN . . . 763 

The Maid of Savoy . . 764 

Midnight 764 

SOOTCH SONO .... 764 

Song : ' It is the solhxn xtsn- 

TOfE * 765 

Fbibndship 765 

^And ask ye why these bad 

teabs 8tbeam?* . . 765 

On Sl^limity .... 765 

The Deity 767 

Time: an Ode .... 767 
GoD^s Denunciations against 

Phabaoh-Hophba, OB Apbies 768 
The Grave of a Suicide . . 7<» 
The Wauc at Midnight . 769 

MiTHBIDBATES PBESENTING BeB- 

enice with the cup of poison 769 
The Old Chieftain . . . 770 
The Fall of Jebusalem . 770 
Lamentation of the Pebu- 

VIANS 771 

•The sun goes down in the 

DABK blue main' . . 772 
On a Dead Enemy . .772 

The Duke of Alva*8 Obsebva- 

tion on Kings .... 772 
' Ah I YES, the lip may faintly 

SMILE* 772 

'Thou camest to thy boweb, 

my love, acboss the muskt 

gbove' 779 

The Passions . , . .772 
The High-Pbikst to Alexan- 

DEB ...... 778 

On the Moon-ught shining 

UPON A Fbiend's Gbavb . 773 
a contbast .... 773 
The Dying Chbistian . . 773 
'How gaily sinks the gob- 

obous sun within his golden 

BED* 774 

*OhI ye WILD WINDS, THAT 

BOAB AND BAVE* . . . 774 

SwrrzEBLAND .... 774 

Babylon 775 

Love 776 

Song : * To sit beside a chbys- 
tal spring ' . . . . 776 

EXHOBTATION TO THE GbXEKS 776 

King Charles's Vision . . 777 

Timbuctoo 778 

Poems published in the Edi- 

TZON of 1830, AND OXXTTXP IH 

Laxem BDinoirt. 



CONTENTS 


ix 


Tm *How' AifDTHs 'Why* 


781 




OP THB OuTBBEAE OP THB 


TkS BUBIAL OP LOTB 


781 




PouflU Instrrbction . . 789 


To 


781 




Dakuno Room . . .789 


80PO : * r THS OLOOMIliG UORT ' 


781 




To Christopher North . . 789 


8ovo : * Thx uktwiute awd thb 




V. 


Other Discarded and Uncol- 


TMBOITUBOOCK * 


782 




lected POEMH. 


Sovo: *£tkbt dat hath its 






On Cambridge University -. 789 


inOHT' 


782 




No More 790 


Hxao TO Lbakdbb 


782 




Anacrbontk^s . . . .790 


Thb Mtitic .... 


783 




A Fbagment .... 790 


Thb Ohamhoppbb 


783 




Sonnet: 'Me mt own pate to 


LoTB, PbIDB, AKD FoBOBTFTIi- 






lasting-sorrow doomrth * . 790 


BBM 


783 




Sonnet: 'Check evert out- 


CBOBua 


784 




plash, BVERY RL^ER SALLY ' 790 


Lost Hopb 


784 




Sonnet: * There are three 


Thb Tbabs op Hbaybk . 


784 




things which fill my HP art 


liOTB AKD SOBBOW 


784 




with sighs * . . .791 


To A LaDT SLRBPfNO 


784 




The Skipping-rope 791 


8OHVBT : * CODLD I OUTWEAB MT 






The New Timon and the Poets 791 


PBISBirr HTATB OP WOB * . 


784 




Lines, contribcttrd to * The 


SonrBT : ' TnoroH Niort hath 






Manchester Athenjcum* . 791 


CLUCBBD HBB PBAK OP HIGH- 






Stanzas, contributed to *Thb 


BUT HOOK ' . . . . 


785 




Keepsake' .... 791 


Sobvbt: * Shall thb rag Evil 






Britons, guard your own . 7!»2 


DIB with child op Qood * . 


785 




Additional Versp^ to *God 


SoBV bt : ' Thb palud thukdrr- 






SAVE the Queen ' . . .792 


mUCBBB SIOH pob gaik ^ . 


785 




The War 792 


LOTB 


7Hr> 




The Ringlet ... .793 


Emoluh WartSong . 


785 


• 


Lines: I^)no ah the heart beats 


National Sobg .... 


7H6 




LiPB within her breast . 793 


DrALtnu 


786 




186(m8ri6 793 


Thb 8ba Fairibs .... 


78B 




Stanza, contributed to thb 


Oi^iwrM 


787 




* Shakespearean Show-Book * 793 


rV. POBm PUBURRBD IN THE EdI- 






Compromise .... 714 


TlOir OP 1K33, AND OMITTED IV 






EXPERIMF.NT IN SaPPHIC BIp.TRE VH 


Later £ditionm. 




XI. 


Notes and Illuhtbations . 794 


SoarvBT: *0 beautt, pamino 




VII. 


Bibliography op Tennyson's 


BEAUTY I IIWBBTBirr 8WBET ! * 


787 




Works 875 


The Hbspebidbh .... 


787 






Rosaukd 


789 


INDEX OF niLST UNES . . 877 


Sovo: * Who can sat * 


789 










INDEX OF TITf .F>> 883 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

AifUD Tkkittbok, the fourth of eight brothers (there were also four eittert), wm 
kn ot the 6th of Aogoit, 1809, at Somezsbj, a village in Linoolnshiie oontaining at that 
tiM IcH than a hundred inhabitants. His father, Rev. George Clayton Tennjson, LL.D., 
en Ik reetor of the parish, * a man of energetic character, remarkable for his great 
iliiBgtk and stature, Mid of very various talents, — something of a poet, painter, arohi- 
iKl, tad musician, and also a considerable linguist and mathematician.' Mrs. Tennyson, 
vkon aniden name was Elizabeth Fytche, Mras the daughter of a clergyman, and is 
tonT w d as 'a sweet and gentle and most imaginative woman; so kind-hearted that it 
bd pitted into a proverb, and the wicked inhabitants of a neighboring village used to 
krisf their dogs to her windows and beat them in order to be bribed to leave off by the 
fntb lidy, or to make advantageous bargains by selling her the worthless curs.' ^ 

Is those days Somersby was quite out of the world, — so much so that the news of the 
Wttle of Waterloo did not reach it at the time, — but the Tennyson children had a world 
if tkeir own with its mimic history and ronmnce. * The boys,' says Mrs. Ritchie, * played 
gitttgioNs, like Arthur's knights; they were champions and warriors defending a stone 
kttp; or, sgain, they would set up opposing camps with a king in the midst of each. The 
^ wu a willow wand stuck into the ground, with an outer circle of inunortals to 
Mid him of firmer, stiffer sticks. Then each party would come with stones, hurling at 
Mck other's king, and trying to overthrow him. Perhaps as the day wore on they became 
XMseets, leaving the jousts deserted. When dinner-time came, and they all sat round 
^ tible, eaeh in turn put a chapter of his history underneath the potato>bowl, — long 
— W ttt histories, chapter after chapter, diffuse, absorbing, unending, as are the stories of 
''■I hfe of which each sunrise opens on a new part. Some of these romances were in 
''^'■ii like ** Clarissa Harlowe." Alfred used to tell a story which lasted for months, 
•ii wkieh was called «'The Ohl Horse." ' 

^tthsr even than this the boy had begun to * lisp in numbers.' When he was only five 
T'uiold, he exclaimed as the wind swept through the rectory garden, * I hear a voice that 's 
'PiBkiig in the wind.' Mrs. Ritchie tells how, not long afterwards, he first put his baby 
f^^ into writing. ' Alfred's first verses were written upon a slate which his brother 
f^^Hss put into his hand one Sunday at Louth, when all the elders of the party were go- 
^ bto church, and the child Mras left alone. Charles gave him a subject, — the flowers 
^ ^ garden, — and when he came back from church, little Alfred brought the slate to 
"* Wether, sil covered with written lines of blank verse. They were made on the model 
^fimM^', " Smmou." tb. only poetry be b«l e^er t^. On. ««> pictae it .U to 
^'i aslf, the flowers in the garden, the verses, the little poet with waiting eyes, and the 
7^B| brother scanning the lines. ** Yes, you can write," said Charles, and he gave 
^^M baek the slate. I have also heard another story, of his grandfather, later on, 

^ Ha. Attw Thaekermy Ritchie, in Reeordi nf Ttnnjimm^ Ruikim, Bmwning (New York, VM^ 
^HUi we are Matted for some iatereetiog partionlais of the poet*s eariy life. 



xii ALFRED TENNYSON 



him to write an elegy on his grandmother, who had recently died, and, when it 
written, putting ten shillings into his hands and saying, ** There, that is the flnt money 
yoo have erer earned by your poetry, and, take my word for it, it will be the last." * 

Alfred and Charles, who was a little more than a year the elder, were sent together to 
Louth grammar school; and there, in the latter part of 1826, we find them preparing lor 
the press a collection of jurenile poems written from the age of fifteen upwards. It was 
published early in 1827 by the Messrs. Jackson, booksellers and printers in Loath, who 
paid the boys twenty pounds for the copyright. The book was entitled ' Poems hj Two 
Brothers,' with the addition of the modest motto from Martial, ' Haec nos novimos eaae 
nihil ' (We ourselres know that these are nothing). The pieces, one hundred and two in 
number, aside from their interest as including the first printed verses of one who has 
since risen to the highest position as a poet, are worthy of note for their wide xmnge of 
subjects and tlie extensive reading in classical and modem authors which they indieafte. 
The themes are drawn from all ages and all lands, as a few of the titles may serve to 
show: Antony to Cleopatra; The Gondola; Written by an Exile of fiassorah, sailing down 
the Euphrates; Persia; Egypt; The Druid's Prophecies; Swiss Song; The Expedition of 
Nadir Shah into Hindostan; Greece; The Maid of Savoy; Scotch Soug, God's Denuncia- 
tions against Pharaoh-Hophra; The Death of Lord Byron; The Fall of Jerusalem; Eolo- 
gium on Homer; The Scenery of South America; Babylon; Phrenology; Exhortation to 
the Greeks; King Charles's Vision, etc. The poems are often introduced by quotatiooB; 
among others, from Addison, Byron, Cicero, Claudian, Gray, Horace, Hume, Luerethn, 
Milton, Moore, Ovid, Racine, Rousseau, Sallust, Scott, Tacitus, Terence, and Virgil. Theie 
are also frequent foot-notes, which are more learned than we should expect from bqjrs of 
eighteen, and yet without the affectation of scholarship that we might expeet in oonneo- 
tion with such a juvenile display of erudition. The brief preface to the volume is withal 
very modest and manly. 

Charles, who was associated with Alfred in this precocious poetical venture, afterwards 
took the name of Turner on inheriting certain estates from his great-uncle. He was a 
true poet, as his later published woiks amply prove. It may be mentioned incidentally 
here that several other of the Tennyson brothers have written poetry. Frederick, the 
eldest, who contributed four pieces to the * Poems by Two Brothers,' published several 
volumes of verse. 

Some of the critics exercised their ingenuity in trying to pick out Alfred's work from 
the poems in this early anonymous volume; but the most that they accomplished was to 
pcnnt out a few verbal resemblances between passages in the juvenile pieces and in the 
acknowledged productions of Teunyson. In 1893, after the poet's death, the Ikm^ was 
reprinted by his son, with the initials of the authors (in part merely conjectural) ap- 
pended to the poems. 

We may see in these boyish verses of the two brothers the influence of Byron, who is 
quoted no less than six times, and whose recent death forms the subject of one poem 
while it is referred to in another. Alfred was not yet fifteen when the news of that event 
reached the little village in Lincolnshire. *• Byron was dead ! I thought the whole world 
was at an end,' he once said, recalling those early daysj ' I thought everything Mras over 
and finished for every one — that nothing else mattered. I remember I walked out 
alone, and carved *' Byron is dead '* into the sandstone.* 

In 1828, Charles and Alfred Tennyson went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where 
their elder brother Frederick had just won the prize for a Greek poem. Here Alfred 
made the friendship of not a few young men who were destined, lik^ himself, to gain a 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xifi 

■M n litentiire, — amoiig tb«m Trench, Monckton Milnes, James Spedding, Henry 
IIM, W. H. Brookfield, J. M. Kemble, and Kiiiglake. More gifted than all the rest, 
litpftTtBled by his early death (in his twenty-third year) from showing anything more 
tkm Ike haddiag promise of his powers, was Arthur Hallam, to whom the poet's ' In 
Mnofmas' will be as immortal monument ' It has pleased God that in his death, as 
nl as fli bis life and nature, he should be marked beyond ordinary men.' 

'Ibi Lover^e Tale,* though not published until a few years ago, was written the same 

/Mr till Tennyson went to Cambridge; and the next summer he gained the Chancellor's 

|sU medal for a poem on Timbuetoo — the first instance in which that honor had been 

sviffded to a pieoe in blank Terse. The * Athensdum ' of July 22, 1829, in a highly eulo- 

firtie aotiee, remarked: ' These productions hare often been ingenious and elegant, but 

«e have aerer before seen one of them which indicated really first-rate poetical genioSy 

mi whieh eoold bare done honor to any man that ever wrote.' 

Ib 1830^ Tennyson brought out, under his own name, ' Poems, chiefly Lyrical,' — a vol- 
■■• of IM pages, containing fifty-three pieces, thirty-two of which were suppressed in 
■sheeqnent editions, though nine of these have been since restored. 

This eoUection, published when the poet was only twenty-one, included * Lilian,' * Isa- 
bel,* ' The Mermaid,' < The Merman,' * The Owl,' • Recollections of the Arabian Nights,' 
• CMU to Memory,' * The Poet's Mind,' and • The Poet.' The kst-named piece is of special 
as indicating the high ideal of the poet's art and rocation with which the young 
started oo his career. It receired just recognition and praise in a notice of the 
llmt appeared in the ' Westminster Review,' for January, 1831. It was written, as 
Ik* pteeent Lord Tennyson informed me, by Sir John Bowriug. The oonclusion of the 
pttHBge* which reads now like a prophecy fulfilled, was as folluws: 
* He bas shown, in the lines from which we quote, his own just conception of the gran- 
of a poet's destiny; and we look to him for its fulfilment. It is not for such men to 
isto mere verse-makers for the amusement of themselves or others. They can influ- 
the associatioos of unnumbered minds; they can command the sympathies of unnum- 
bearts; they can disseminate principles, they can give those principles power over 
*s imaginations; they can eicite in a good cause the sustained enthusiasm that is sure to 
>; they can blast the laurels of the tyrants, and hallow the memories of the martyrs 
«f patriotasm; they can act with a force, the estent of which it is difficult to estimate, 
■atiotial feelings and character, and consequently upon national happiness. If our 
of Mr. Tennyson be correct, be too is a poet; and many years hence may he read 
km javenile description of that character with the proud oonseiousoess that it has become 
the 4eeeription and history of his own wori^' 
TeuiyaoB lived and wrote for more than sixty years after these eloquent and prophetic 
were penned; and there could not be a more truthful description and history of 
than those inspired strains of his youth. The estimate of the critic was eor- 
Tbe young singer was a poet, and be proved himself such a poet as he saw in that 
riMD. It was a lofty and noble ideal, but he made it a living reality. 
TenayaoB's book was also reviewed favorably by Leigh Hunt in « The Tatler ' for 1831, 
by Artbnr Hallam in ' The Englbhman's Magazine ' for August of the same year. 
!• May, 1832, Cbristopber North (Professor Wilson) criticised the young poet's woric in 
'Bfavkwood* in a very different vein, praising it indeed, but showing up its faults and 
MmAs witk maieiless aeTerity. There was justice in some of its strictures, and they may 
kava bad tkeir iaflnence in leading Tennjrson to suppress certain of the poems in later 
At muf rate, tba pasaagea held ap to ridicule by the reviewer are mostly from 
sappraaaad pieces. 



xiv ALFRED TENNYSON 



In the winter of 1832, Tennjson published another thin Tolume of Terse, which was a 

great adranoe on that of two years preTioos, containing as it did some of the poems which 

hare ever since been reckoned among his best, — as ' The Lady of Shalott, ' ' The Miller's 

Daughter,' 'Qfinooe,' <The Pyaee of Art,' < The Lotos-Eaters,' and the ' Dream of Fair 

Women.' It is true that every one of these poems has been more or lest revised since 

then; but a careful oomparison of the earlier and later versions shows that much that we 

should now mark as most admirable in them is unchanged from the reading of 1832. A 

considerable portion of this volume, though less than of the former one, has been suppressed 

in the more recent editions; but a few of the omitted pieces have since been restored 

under the head of * Juvenilia.' The following little hit at Christopher North has not been 

thns reinstated: 

* You did lata review my lays, 

Crasty Christopher; 
Yon did minifle blame and praise, 

Rusty Christopher. 
When I learnt from whom it came, 
I f oigaye yon all the blame. 

Musty Christopher ; 
I could not forgave the praise. 

Fusty Christopher.* 

For the next ten years (1833-1842) Tennyson published almost nothing. * The Lover'b 
Tale ' was printed in 1833, but withdrawn before publication and not brought out again 
until 1879, after a pirated edition had appeared. * Saint Agnes ' and one or two other 
pieces were contributed to * Annuals ' and similar collections during this period; but with 
these slight exceptions the silence of the poet was unbroken for the ten years. 

It is probable that this long silence was mainly due to the death of his friend Hylla«n 
in 1833; perhaps also, as has been suggested by more than one critic, to his desire to pei^ 
feet himself in his art before giving the world further results of it. 'In Memoriam ' was 
elaborated during this period, though not published until 1850; and the best of the poems 
issued in 1830 and 1832 were carefully revised — some of them almost entirely rewritten 
— and sundry new poems were produced. 

The fruits of this labor (' In Memoriam ' excepted) appeared in 1842 in two volumes, 
one of which was chiefly made up of the earlier poems in their revised form, while the 
other was almost entirely new. Among the contents of the latter volume was the ' Morte 
d' Arthur,' which we know to have been written as early as 1835, and which, like * The 
Lady of Shalott ' in the 1832 volume, shows that the Arthurian legends had begun to 
interest and inspire the poet long before he planned the extended epical treatment of them 
in the • Idylls of the King.' 

« The Talking Oak,' * Dora,' < Ulysses,' < Looksley Hall,' « Saint Agnes,' and ' Sir Gal*, 
had ' are among the other remarkable poems published in 1842. 

The general recognition of Tennyson as the greatest poet of the time dates from this 
period. Hitherto his admirers had been the select few, and the leading critics had been 
divided in their estimate of his work; but now he was hailed with almost unanimous 
eulogies. As another has said, ' all England rang with the stirring music of ** Locksley 
Hall," ' and ' nearly all of the choicer spirits of the age conspired to chant the praises 
of the poet and to do him honor.' 

Up to this time Tennyson was almost unknown in this country. It is doubtful whether 
a doten copies of the volumes of 1830 and 1832 ever crossed the Atlantic Neither of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xv 

ii to Im fomid io any of oiir great librmriasy and in private ooUections they are ezoes- 
mlj fire. The only eztended notioe of them in any of our literary journals of that day, 
» litf aa I ean learn, was in the ' Christian Examiner ' in 1837, from the pen of Mr. 
Ml 8w Dwigfai. He borrowed the books, as he told me, of Emerson, who delighted to 
fasa thsB to Us frieiids and endearored to hare them reprinted in Boston.^ 

The edition of 1842 was reprinted here; but Mr. B. H. Tieknor, the son of the pub- 
Usft taforms me that 1500 oc^es supplied the Ameriean demand for the next three 



By this time, his fame in England was well assured. Wordsworth, in a letter dated 
Jaly 1, 1845, says: < I saw Tennyson when I was in Loudon several times. He is de- 
cidedly the first of our living poets, and I hope will live to give the world still better 
thingB.' It is a significant fact that, on the death of Soothey in 1843, Tennyson was 
among the few poets who were talked of as successors to the lanreateship, though the 
geatral opinion, as might have been expected, was in favor of the venera b le poet ou whom 
Ike honor was finally eooferred. 

A second edition of the ' Poems ' of 1842 was called for within a year, and two more 
editions were issued in 1845 and 1846. In 1845 the poet was placed on the pension-list 
hy Sir Bobert Peel for an annuity of £200. The grant was the means of calling forth 
aome ill-natured criticisms, the most notable of which was a satirical fling, in Bulwer- 
Ljtton's «Tbe New Timon ' (London, 1846), at the 'Theban taste' that 'pensions Ten- 
snrson while starves a Knowles.' The productions of ' school-miss Alfred ' were described 
aa * oot-babying Wordsworth and out-glittering Keats,' with much more in the same vein. 
Thm attack drew from Tennyson a rejoinder printed in * Punch ' (February 26, 1846) over 
Ihn signature of * Alcibiades,' and followed in the next number by another, less severe, 

* Afterthought.' In this * sober second thought ' the poet comes to the wise 
Vinson that sQenee is the ' noblest answer' to all such spiteful attacks. This latter 

s afterwards included in the editions of Tennyson under the title of ' Literary 
Sqnabbtea.' No one would suspect ai^ reference to Lytton in it if he did not know its 



It b pleasant to be able to add that Bulwer struck out the sneer at Tennyson from the 
third edition of ' The New Timon,' and that the two poets afterwards became good 
friends. In a pnblio speech in 1862, Lytton, in alluding to Prince Albert, quoted what 
he called ' the thought so exquisitely expressed by our Poet Laureate ' — namely, that 
the Prince is * The silent father of our kings to be '; and later Tennyson, in dedicating 

* Harold ' to the younger Lytton, gracefully acknowledged his indebtedness to the novel 
on the same subject by the elder Lytton. ' O strange hate-healer, Time ! ' as the Laureate 
elsewhere exelaims. 

On the more recent history of the poet it is not necessary to dwell in detaiL In 1847 

* The IViue ee s ' appeared, and in 1850 ' In Memoriam ' was at last given to the world. 
The same year Tennyson was married, and was made Poet Laureate. In 1852 the ' Ode 
on the D ea th of Wellington ' was published, and the next year the eighth edition of the 
eampletn * Poems ' was issued. ' Maud and Other Poems ' appeared in 1855, and a second 
edition in 1856 with * Maud ' in a considerably enlarged form. In 1859 followed the 

* UyOs of the King,' including ' Enid,' ' Vivien,' ' Elaine,' and ' Guinevere.' Ten thousand 

> Thie I learned from Mr. Samuel Lc»gf •Uov? ^ho showed me a letter from Mean. C. C. Little 
A Cii. to his heolher the poet, dated April 27, 1838, in whieh thay refer to Ememoii^s denira for 
en Ameriean leptfart of Teaaysoo and their ialsntion of nuikiag one. Why the plan was not oss^ 
ried ens I am nnahle to say. 



xvi ALFRED TENNYSON 



oopies of the Tolonie were sold in a few weeks. Four more Idylls — ' The Coming of 
Arthur/ « The Holy Grail,' * PeUeas and Ettarre,' and < The Passing of Arthur ' (in 
which the * Morte d' Arthur ' of 1842 was incorporated) — were published ten years later, 
in 1869, when forty thousand co|Mes of the book were ordered in advance. * The Last 
Tournament ' and ' Gareth and Lynette ' were added in 1872. Meanwhile * Enoch Arden,* 
etc, had appeared in 1864, and *The Window' had been privately printed in 18G7. 
Sundry poems had also been contributed to magazines, and were included in ' The Holy 
Grail and Other Poems' of 1869. Li 1875 the drama of 'Queen Mary' was given to 
the world, and in 1877 that of ' Harold.' The former, in a condensed and altered form, 
was put on the stage in 1876 with moderate success, but the latter has never been acted. 
In 1879, as already stated, < The Lover's Tale,' withdrawn in 1833, was published, with 
the addition of a third part entitled 'The Golden Supper.' Later in the same year, 
*The Falcon,' a one-act play based on the well-known story of Count Federigo and 
Monna Giovanna from Boccaccio that had been already told in verse by Barry Cornwall 
and Longfellow, was produced at the St. James Theatre in London. In the ' Ballads 
and Other Poems ' of 1880 certain pieces contributed to the * Nineteenth Century * in 
1877-1879 were gathered up, with others that had not been previously printed. Early in 
1881, * The Cup,' a tragedy in two acts, was brought out at the Lyceum Theatre, under 
the direction of Mr. Irving, and had a very successful run. In November, 1882, a 
fourth drama by Tennyson was acted in London — a prose work called ' The Promise of 
May.' 

Late in 1883 it was announced that the Queen had offered a peerage to Tennyson, and 
that he had accepted it. It had been offered him twice before (in March, 1873, through 
Mr. Gladstone, and in December, 1874, through Mr. Disraeli) and had been declined; 
but he probably felt that it would be ungracious to refuse it a third time. He was 
gazetted Baron of Aid worth and Farringford, on the 18th of January, 1884. Among the 
letters he received on the occasion was one from an old woman named Susan Epton, 
who had been in the service of the poet's father and afterwards lady's maid to Mrs. 
Tennyson. * I have received many letters of congratulation,' Tennyson remarked in a 
letter to a friend, 'some from great lords and ladies; but the affectionate remembrance 
of good old Susan Epton and her sister touched me more than a]( these.' 

There were those, however, who found fault with the Laureate for consenting to become 
Lord Tennyson. * Not only could no fame accrue to him from a title, but it was urged 
that, by taking one, he was scarcely true to his own ideals, — at all events, that he did 
not rise to the height of his own inspiration.' I know of no better answer to this than 
has been made by an American and a republican. Mr. Stedman (' Victorian Poets,' re- 
vised ed., 1887, p. 422) says: 

' When the Laureate was raised to the peerage — a station which he twiee declined in middle 
life — he gained some attention from the satirists, and his acceptance of rank no doubt was hon- 
estly bemoaned by many sturdy radicals. It is difficult, neverthelem, to find any violation of 
principle or taste in the acceptance by England^s favorite and official poet of such an honor, be- 
stowed at the climax of his years and fame. Republicans should bear in mind that the republic 
of letters is the only one to which Alfred Tenn3r8on owed allegiance ; that he was the ** first eit- 
isen " of an ancient monarchy, which honored letters by gratefully conferring upon him its high 
traditional award. It would be truckling for an American, loyal to his own form of government, 
to receive an aristocratic title from some foreign potentate. Longfellow, for example, promptly 
declined an order tendered him by the King of Italy. But a sense of fitness, and even patriot- 
ism, should make it easy for an Englishman, faithful to a constitutional monarchy, to accept any 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvfi 

^fiity aid«r that lyitem. In erery oonntrj it ii thought worth while for one to ho 
of his familj ; and in Great Britain no able man oonld do more for deecendantB, to 
kt ii not tBie of bequeathing hit talents, than by handing down a class privilege, even 
k eoBfofs BO additinnal glory npon the original winner. Extreme British democrats, who 
sfMly «r covertly wish to change the form of government, and even communists, are aware that 
Tb^an does aot belong to their ranks. He has been a liberal conservative : liberal in human- 
ity aii pngTMsive thought, strictly conservative in allegiance to the national system. As for 
lN| iMBk hot ths territory, imperil the institutions of Great Britain, and Swinburne himself — 
Ifti pipfl of Landor, Mswini, and Hugo — betrays the blood in his veins. Tennyson, a liberal 
if At Maniee group, has been deveriy styled by Whitman a ** poet of feudalism ; ** he ii a cele- 
lm» of the past, of sovereignty and kidghthood ; he is no lost leader, ^ just for a ribbon ** 
hsiim sons gallant cause forsworn or any song unsung. In all fairness, his acceptance of rank 
•*«B Ins of inoooristency than does the logic of those who rail at the world for neglect of 
then upbraid them both for coming to an underrtanding.* 



£silj in 1885 Lord Tennyson published the drmma of ' Beoket,' and at the close of the 
MM year the Tolnme entitled ' Tiiesiaa and Other Poems,' the larger portion of which 
hi not preTioosly appeared in print. * Balin and Balan ' in this volume ooncladed the 
Mies oi Arthurian idyls. The book was dedicated to Robert Browning. 

In 1886 ' Loeksley Hall Sixty Years After ' appeared, — forty-four years after the first 
* Loeksley Hall ' electrified the literary world. The volume also included three poems 
eoatrihaied to the * Times ' and other periodicals during 1885. 

In 1889 * Demeter and Other Poems ' eame out, twenty thousand copies of which were 
sold within a week after publication. As the work of an octogenarian it was every way 
femarkable. The Laureate's eightieth birthday, August 6, 1889, called forth many trib- 
ilas both in prose and verse on both sides of the Atlantic. 

Thn romantic play of ' The Foresters,' founded on the story of Robin Hood and Maid 
Marian, was produced at Daly's Theatre in New York, March 17, 1892, and was pub- 
fished soon afterwards. 

On tha dth of October of the same year Lord Tennyson died after a brief sickness, and 
was buried in the ' Poet's Comer ' of Westminster Abbey on the 12th. The volume 
SBlifWd * The Death of CBnone, Akbar's Dream, and Other Poems,' which was in press at 
the tiBM of his death, was published a few weeks later. 

For fnDer information oonoeming the poet and his works, the reader may be referred 
Is ths 'Memoir* (2 toIs., London and New York, 1897) by his son, the present Lord 



W. J. B. 

G4MBHDOB, Ml^, 1886b 



TO THE QUEEN 

This poem was prefixed to the first Laureate Edition (1851), where it faiduded th« 
'Crrstal- Palace * stanza (see Notes) omitted in all subsequent editions. The 4th stanza 
maeitcd in the next edition, and a few slight changes were made elsewhere. 

Revered^ beloved — O you that hold 
A nobler office upon earth 
Than armsy or power ofbrain^ or birth 

Could give the warrior kings ofold^ 

Victoria^ — since your Royal grace 

To one of less desert allows 

This laurel greener from the brows 
Of him that uttered nothing base j 

And should your greatness^ and the care 
That yokes with empire^ yield you tim§ 
To make cUmand of modem rhyme 

Jf aught of ancient worth be there; 

Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
And thro^ wild March the throstle calU% 
Where all cdwut your palace-walls 

The sufhlit almond-blossom shakes — 

Take, Afadam^ this poor book of song; 

For tho' the faults were thick as dust 

In vacant chambers, I could trust 
Your kindness, Afayyou rule us long^ 

And leave us rulers of your blood 
As noble till the latest day! 
May children of our children say^ 

* She wrought her people lasting good; 

* Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
God gave htr peace; her land reposed/ 
A thousand claims to reverence closed 

In her as Mother^ lVift% and Quans 



_>^MA^h^ 



TO THE QUEEN 



' And statesmen at her council met 
Who knew the seasons when to take 
Occasion by the hand, and make 

Tke bounds of freedom wider yet 

' By shaping some august decree 

Which kept her throne unshaken stilly 
Broad^ased upon her Peoples wilL^ 

And compassed by the inviolate seaJ 



JUVENILIA 



Udi head, in tlM oae-Tolnme and wTen-TolnnM edkioos of 1884 and all aoliaaqiwBt 

Lord Taanyson ioolnded oartain poems from the volumes of 1880 and 1888 (some of 

were rappressed in 1842), with others that had not appeared in any earlier authoriaed 

of his works. Fur those not printed in 1880 (or then printed, and afterwards su ppr essed 

) see the prefatury notes to the poems. All those without prefatory notes (or zefer> 

other notes) were printed in 1880 and reprinted in 1842. 



CLARIBEL 

A MELODY 
In 1 890 ' callow * was ' fledgling '. 



WncmE Claribel low-lieth 
The breeieB pause and die. 
Letting the ruee-leavet fmll; 
But the solemn oak-tree sij^hethy 
Thick-lenTed, ambrosuJ, 
With an ancient melody 
Of an inward agony, 
Where CUribel low4ieth. 

At ere the beetle booroeih 

Athwart the thicket lone; 
At noon the wild bee hummeth 

A boat the moes'd headstone; 
At midnight the moou tsometh. 

And looketh down alone. 
Her song the liiitwhite swelleth, 
The elev^Toiced maTis dwelleth, 

The callow throstle lispeth, 
The slumbrous wave outwelleth. 

The babbling runnel criipeth. 
The hollow gn>t replieth 

Whero Claribel low-lieth. 



NOTHING WILL DIE 

nis poem and the two next poems, first 
"in 1880, WOTS omitted in 1842, but 



Whbv will IIm fltream be aweary of flow- 
iJader my eje ? 



When will the wind be aweary of Uowing 

Over the skv ? 
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting ? 
When will the heart be aweary of beating ? 

And nature die ? 
NeTer, O, never, nothing will die; 

The stream flows. 

The v/ind blows, 

The cloud fleets, 

Tlie heart beats. 
Nothing will die. 

Nothing wiU die; 
All things will change 
Thro' eternity, 
rr is the world's winter; 
Autumn and summer 
Are gone long ago; 
Earth is dry to tne centrey 
But spring, a new corner, 
A spring rich and strange. 
Shall make the winds bfow 
Round and round. 
Thro* and thro*, 

Here and there. 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be filPd with life 



The world was never made; 
It will chan^, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range; 
For even and mom 

Ever will be 

Thro* eternity. 
Nothing was bom; 
Nothing will die; 
All things willobange. 



JUVENILIA 



ALL THINGS WILL DIE 

Clrarlt the blue riTer cbimeft in its flowing 

Under mj ejre; 
Warmly and broadlj the south winds are 
blowing 

Over the sky. 
One after another the white clonds are 

fleeting; 
Every heart this May morning in joyanoe 
is beating 

Full merrily; 
Yet all thinp;s most die. 
The stream will cease to flow; 
The wind will cease to blow; 
The clouds will cease to fleet; 
The heart will cease to beat; 
For all things must die. 

All things must die. 
Spring will come never more. 

O, vanity ! 
Death waits at the door. 
See * our friends are all forsaking 
The wine and the merrymaking. 
We are call'd — we uAist go. 
Laid low, very low, 
In the dark we must lie. 
The merry glees are still; 
The voice of the bird 
Shall no more be heard. 
Nor the wind on the hiU. 

O, misery ! 
Hark ! death is calling 
While I speak to ye, 
The jaw is falling, 
The red cheek paline. 
The strong limbs faiUng; 
Ice with &e warm blood mixing; 
The eyeballs fixing. 
Nine times goes the passing bell: 
Ye merry souls, farewelL 

The old earth 

Had a birth. 

As all men know. 

Long ago. 
And the old earth must die. 
So let the warm winds range. 
And the blue wave beat the shore; 
For even and mom 
Ye will never see 
Thro' eternity. 
All things were bom. 
Ye will oome never moxt| 
For all thibgs roust dia. 



LEONINE ELEGIACS 

Low-FLOwma breezes are roaming the 

broad valley dimm'd in the gloam- 
ing; 
Thoro' the blaek-stemm'd pines only the 

far river shines. 
Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers 

of rose-blowing bushes, 
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble 

and f alL 
Barketh the shepherd -dog cheerly;. the 

grasshopper caroUeth clearly; 
Deeply the wood-dove coos ; shrilly the 

owlet hallooe; 
Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first 

sleep earth breathes stilly: 
Over the pools in the bum water-gnats 

murmur and mourn. 
Sadly the far kine loweth; the glimmering 

water outfloweth; 
Twin peaks shadow'd vrith pine slope to the 

dark hyaline. 
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the 

two peaks; but the Naiad 
Throbbing in mUd unrest holds him be- 

n^th in her breast. 
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus 

all things bringeth. 
Smoothing the weari^ mind: bring me my 

love, Rosalind. 
Thou comest morning or even; she oometh 

not morning or even. 
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my 

sweet Rosalind ? 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 



OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND 



This poem, published in 18S0, was su p pr essed 
for more than fifty years. In 1879 the Chris- 
tian Signal,* an English jonmal, annoonoed 
that its vasae for September 6th would contain 
* an early unpublished poem of over two hun- 
dred lines by Alfred Tennyson (P. L), entitled 
** Confessions of a SensitiTe Bfind ; " ' but the 
publication was prevented by a legal injunc- 
tion. In 1884 the poem was included in Uia 
complete edition of the Lanreate^s works. 

GrOD I my God ! have mercy now* 

1 faint, I falL Men say that Thoa 
Didst die for me, for such as iim^ 



SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 



to 



of ill, and dMUhy and Moni, 
Amd that my liii was as a thorn 
Asoaf ilM tboms thai sirt Thj brow, 
Wn— fling Thj soaL — That even now. 
In tkis aitremeat miaerj 
Of inoraaoe, I shoald reqnire 
Asinl and if a bolt of fkfe 
Woud itTO the slombrons sammer noon 
While I do pray to Thee alone, 
Thtak my belief would stronger g^row I 
la Bot my human pride broueht low ? 
TW boastings of my spirit still ? 
TW joy I had in mj free-will 
All eoui, and dead, and corpse-like grown ? 
Aad what is left to me bot Thou, 
Amd faith in Thee ? Men pass me by; 
Ckristiaas with happy countenanoes — ao 
Aad ehildien all seem full of Thee I 
Amd women smile with saint-like glanees 
LOke Thine own mother's when she bow'd 
Aboire Thee, on that happy mom 
When angels spake to men aloud, 
Aad Thon and peaee to earth were bom. 
Good-will to me as well as all — 
I one of them; my brothers they; 
Brotheia in Christ — a world of peace 
Aod coaftdence, day after day; 50 

Aad tmst and hope till things should cease, 
Aod tbea ono HeaTen receiTC ns alL 

How sweet to have a common faith I 

To hold a common scorn of death I 

Aod at a burial to hear 

The creaking cords which wound and eat 

lolo my human heart, whene'er 

Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, 

With hopeful grief, were passing sweet I 

IWeo havpy state again to bo 40 

IW tmstnil infant on the knee, 
Who lets his rosy fingers play 
Ahoot hb mother's neck, and knows 
XathiBg beyond his mother's eyes I 
Thay comfort him by night and day; 
Thtj light his little life alway; 
Be hath no thought of coming woes; 
He hath no care of life or death; 
8cosoe ootward signs of jo^ arise. 
Because the Spirit of happiness 90 

Aad perfect rest so inward is; 
And tvreth so his innocent hourt. 
Her temple aod her place of birth, 
Whofo slie would ever wish to dwell, 
Lifa of tlw fountain there, beneath 
ha aaliaat springs, and far aparl^ 



Hating to wander out on earth, 

Or breathe into the hollow air. 

Whose chillness would make Tisible 

Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 60 

Which mixing with the infant's Uood, 

Fulfils him with beatitude. 

O, sure it is a special care 

Of God, to fortify from doubt, 

To arm in proof, and guard about 

With triple-mailed trust, and blear 

Delight, the infant's dawning year. 

Would that my gloomed fancy were 

As thine, my mother, when with brows 

Propt on thy knees, mj hands upheld 70 

In tnine, I usten'd to thr tows. 

For me outpour'd in hohest prayer — 

For me unworthj ! — and beheld 

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 

The beauty and repose of faith. 

And the clear spirit shining thro'. 

O, wherefore do we now awry 

From roots which strike so deep ? why dare 

Paths in the desert ? Could not I 

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt. 

To the earth — until the ice would melt 81 

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? 

What devil had the heart to scathe 

Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to bmsh the 

dew 
From thine own lOy, when thy graTO 
Was deep, my mother, in the cUy ? 
Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 
80 little loTe for thee ? But why 
PrcTaird not thy pure prayers? Whj 

pray 
To one who heeds not, who can save 90 
But will not ? Great in faith, and strong 
Against the grief of circumstance 
Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
Thou pleadest still, and seest me driTO 
Thro' utter dark a f ull-sail'd skiff, 
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
Unto the death, not sunk ! I know 
At matins and at CTcnsoag, 
That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 
In deep and daily prayers wonldst stilfo 
To reconcile me with thy God. 
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still -» 
' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 
Mr Lord, if so it be Thy wiU.' 
Wouldst tell ma I must brook the rod 
And chattiaomeDt of hnman pridaj 



JUVENILIA 



Thmt pride, the nn of devils, stood 

Betwixt me and the light of God; no 

That hitherto I had defied 

And had rejected God — that grace 

Would drop from His o'er>brimmiiig lore, 

As mamia on my wilderness, 

If I would pray — that God would moTe 

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thenoe, 

Sweet in their atuK»t bitterness, 

Would issue tears of penitence 

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas I 

I think that pride bath now no place lao 

Nor sojourn lu me. I am Toid, 

Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 

Why not belieTe then ? Why not yet 
Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
Hath moor*d and rested ? Ask the sea 
At midnight, when the crisp slope wares 
After a tempest rib and fret 
The broad-imbased beach, why he 
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ? 
Wherefore his ridges are not curls 190 

And ripples of an mland mere ? 
Whereiore he moaneth thus, nor can 
Draw down into his yezed pools 
All that blue heaven which hues and paves 
The other ? I am too forlorn, 
-Too shaken: my own weakness fools 
My judgment, and my spirit whirls. 
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 

* Tet,' said I, in my mom of youth. 

The unsuna'd freshness of my strength, 140 
When I went forth in quest of truth, 

* It is man's privilege to doubt. 

If so be that from doubt at length 

Truth may stand forth unmoved of change. 

An image with profulgent brows 

And perfect limbs, as from the storm 

Of running fires and fluid range 

Of lawless airs, at last stood out 

This excellence and solid form 

Of constant beauty. For the ox 950 

Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 

The homed valleys all about. 

And hollows of the fringed hills 

In summer heats, with placid lows 

Unfearing, till his own blood flows 

About his hoof. And in the flocks 

The lamb rejoieeth in the year. 

And raoeth ireely with his fere. 

And answers to his mother's calls 

From the flower'd furrow. In a time t6o 

Of which he wots not, run short pains 



Thro' his warm heart; and then, 

whenoe 
He knows not, on his light there ftdls 
A shadow; and his native slope. 
Where he was wont to leap and climb^ 
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
And something in the darkness draws 
His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
Living, but that he shall live on ? 
Shall we not look into the laws 
Of life and death, and things that seen 
And things that be, and analyse 
Our double nature, and compare 
All creeds till we have found the one. 
If one there be ? ' Ay me I I fear 
All may not doubt, but everywhere 
Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God, 
Whom call I idol? Let Thy dove 
ST^rvlow me over, and my sins 
Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
Enlighten me. O, teach me yet 
Somewhat before the heavy clod 
Weighc on me, and the busy fret 
Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
In the gross bUckness underneath. 

O weary life I O weary death I 
O spirit and heart made desolate I 
O damned vacillating state ! 



THE KRAKEN 

Published in 1830, omitted in 1842, but afterw 
wards restored, with * fins * changed to 'arms.' 

Below the thunders of the upper deep^ 
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea. 
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep 
The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights 

flee 
About his shadowy sides; above him swell 
Huge sponges of millennial growth and 

height; 
And far away into the sickly light. 
From many a wondrous grot and secret 

cell 
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering 

green. 
There hath he lain for ages, cod will lie 
Battening upon huge sea -worms in hb 

sleeps 



ISABEL 



Jalil tk^ Itttter fife ilyOl hmi the deep; 
hj auui and angels to be teen, 
M flMdl riM AM on tbe surface 



SONG 



b 1890 the title WM * We an Fiee 'and 
hm two ersBTM were priDted as one ; omitted 
m 1842, bat afterwards restoied. 

Tmm winds, as at their hour of birth, 

f.nnntny upon the ridged sea, 
Bwatbed low around Um rolling earth 

With mellow preludes, * We are free.' 



rW ■tirams, through many a lilied row 
Down-earolling to the erisped sea, 

L4»v-4iakled with a belMike flow 
Atwnen the blossoms, < We are free.' 



LILIAN 
In 1642 « puAed ' wss ohaaged to ' gatheied.' 

I 

AxBT, ftiirj Lilian, 

Flitting, fainr Lilian, 
When I ask her if she love roe, 
Claps her tiny hands above me. 

Laughing all she can; 
8be 11 not teU me if she love me. 

Cruel little Lilian. 

II 

When my jMMsion seeks 
Pleasanoe m love-sighs, 
61m, looking thro' and t^' ma 
Thofoaghly to undo me. 
Smiling, never speaks; 
8o ianoeent-arch, so eunning-simple, 
Frnb beneat h her gathered wimple 
Glaaetng with blaok-beaded eyes, 
Tm ike lightning laughters dimple 
The baby-roses in her oheeks; 
Then away she flies. 

Ill 

Fnrtkeo weep. May Lilian 1 
Gaiety without mIijpm 

Wearietk me. May I^ian; 
Tkro' my very heart it thrilleth 

When from erimson-threaded lipa 
fiQvw-tiebla laughter trilleth: 

Fkylkea wMp, May Ulian! 



IV 



Prayinff all I can. 
If prayers will not hush thee, 

Airy Lilian, 
Like a rose-leaf I will erush tkee, 

Fairy Lilian. 



ISABEL 

Tennyson*8 mother wss the basis of this 
portrait. 

Etis not down-dropt nor over-bright, but 
fed 
With the elear-pointed flame of ehasttty, 
Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
Pure vestal thoughts in the translu- 
cent fane 
Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread. 
Madonna-wise on either side her heaa ; 

Sweet lips whereon perpetually did 
reign 
The summer calm of golden charity, 
Were fixed shadows of Uiy fixed mood, 

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
The stately flower of female fortitude, 
Of perfect wifehood and pore lowU- 
head. ^ 

The intuitive decision of a bright 
And thorough-edged intellect to part 
Error from crime; a prudence to with- 
hold; 
The laws of marriage character'd in 
gold 
Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; 
A love still burning upward, giving light 
To read those laws; an accent very low 
In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, 
Right to the heart and brain, tho' undo- 
scried. 
Winning its way with extreme gentle* 
nesA 
Thro' all the outworks of sujmieious pride; 
A courage to endure and to obey; 
A hate of gossip parlance, and of swar, 
Crown'd Isabel, tnro' all her placid life, 
The queen of marriage, a most perfect 
wife. 

The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; 
A clear ftmam flowing with a mnddy ooa^ 



8 



JUVENILIA 



Till in its onward current it mbsorbs 
With swifter movement and in purer 

light 
The Teiad eddies of its wayward bro- 
ther; 
A leaning and npbearinff parasite, 
Clothing the stem, whioh else had 
fallen quite 
With clustered flower-bells and ambrosial 
orbs 
Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each 

other — 
Shadow forth thee: — the world hath 
not another 
(Tho' all her fairest forms are types of 

thee. 
And thou of God in thy great charity) 
Of such a finish*d chasten'd purity. 



MARIANA 

*lfariMui in the moftted fiaiigs.* 

Meaawrtfor Measure, 

• 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all; 
The rusted nails fell from the knots 

That held the pear to the gable-wall. 
The broken'sheds look'd sad and strange: 
Unlifted was the clinking latch; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated ^^range. 

She only said, ' My life is dreary, 

He Cometh not, she said; lo 

She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

Her tears fell with the dews at CTcn; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She could not look on the sweet heaven. 

Either at mom or eventide. 
After the flitting of the bats. 

When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 
And elanced athwart the glooming flats, ao 
She only said, ' The night is Srearj, 

He Cometh not,' she said; 
She said, * I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow; 
The cock sung out an hour ere light; 

From the &tk fen the oxen's low 



Came to her; without hope of change^ 
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn. 
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed moi 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, * The day is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead I ' 

About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 
And o'er it many, round and small. 

The duster'd marish-mosses crept. 
Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
All silver-green with gnarled bark: 
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 
She only said, * My life is drnuy, 

He Cometh not, she said; 
She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up and awa} 
In the white curtain, to and fro. 

She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
But when the moon was very low. 

And wild winds bound within their ceU 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, < The night is dreary. 

He Cometh not,' she said; 
She said, * I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead ! ' 

All day within the dreamy house. 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek' 
Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
Old faces glimmer d thro' the doors. 
Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
Old voices called her from without. 
She only said, * My life is dreary. 

He coraeth not,' she said; 
She said, * I am aweary, aweary, 
I would that I were dead I ' 

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 
The slow clock ticking, and the sound 

Which to the wooing wind aloof 
The poplar made, did all confound 

Her sense; but most she loathed the houx 
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
Athwart the chambers, and tiie day 



SONG — THE OWL 



W« iofimg towmid hit wettam bower. 
Tmb Mid sIm, * I am very dremry, 

H« will not oome,' she said; 
fikt weptt * I Mn aweanr, awearr, 

OGodfthatlwaredeadl' 



TO 



CUAB-RKADBD friend, whoee jojfnl tcom, 
Edied with sharfi Uaffhter, cuts atwain 
lae knots that tangle human creeds, 
IW woonding cords that bind and strain 
IV beart until it bleeds, 
Riy-frisMl ejelids d the mom 

B4M>f not a glance so keen as thine; 
If soght of prophecy be mine, 
IWs wut not liTe in yain. 

II 

Ltv-covrering shall the Sophist sit; 

Fahekood shall bare her plaited brow; 

Faifwfrooted Truth shall droop not now 
Whk ikrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
Hot nutyr-uroes, nor trenchant swords 

Csa do away that ancient lie; 

A fMrtler deatb shall Falsehood die, 
SWt tkto' and thro' with cunning words. 

Ill 

W«k Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
WiiB, wasted Truth in her utmost need, 
tkj kingly intellect shall feed, 

tita the be an athlete bold, 

isd veary with a finger's touch 
Ikose writhed limM of lightning speed; 

lib tkai strange angel which of old, 
Catfl the breaking of the light, 

Wifstled with wanaeriog Israel, 
Fut Yabbok brook the liTclong night, 

iad keaTen's mased signs stood still 
la the dim timet of PenaeL 



MADELINE 



Tboc ait BoC steep'd in golden langnors, 
No tiaoced sommer csim is thine. 
Ever Tarring Madeline. 
Tkro* light and shadow thou dost range, 
fi a d d — giaoeei, sweet and strange, 

Mieioms spites and darling angers, 
Aad atry fonna of flitting changa. 



Smiling, frowning, CTermore, 
Thou art perfect in loTe-lore. 
ReTcalines deep and clear are thine 
Of wealthy smues; but who may know 
Whether smile or frown be fleeter ? 
Whether smile or frown be sweeter. 

Who may know ? 
Frowns perfect-sweet alonff the brow 
Light-glooming over eyes mTine, 
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, 
Ever varying Madeline. 
Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
From one another, 
Each to each is dearest brother; 
Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
Momently shot into each other. 
All the mystery is thine; 
Smiling, frowning, evermore. 
Thou art perfect m love-lore. 
Ever varying Madeline. 

in 

A subtle, sudden flame, 
By veeriuff passion fann'd. 

About thee breaks and dances : 
When I would kiss thy hand. 
The flush of ao^r'd shame 

O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown : 
But when I turn away, 
Thou, willing me to stay, 

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest, 

But, looking fixedly the wl&le. 
All my bounding heart entanglest 

In a golden-netted smile ; 
Then in madness and in bliss, 
If my lips should dare to kiss 
Thy taper fingers amorously. 
Again thou blushest angrily ; 
And o'er black brows drops down 
A sudden-curved frown. 

SONG — THE OWL 



Whkk cats run home and light is come. 

And dew is cold upon the ground. 
And the far-off stream is dumb, 
And the whirring sail goes round. 
And the whirring sail goes round ; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry siU 



r^ 



lO 



JUVENILIA 



n 

When merrj milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roandelay; 
Alone and warming his fiye wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 



SECOND SONG 



TO THE SAME 



Tht tuwhito are luU'd, I wot. 
Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
Which upon the dark afloat. 
So tooK echo with delight, 
So took echo with delight. 
That her yoice, untuneful grown. 
Wears all day a fainter tone. 

n 

I would mock thy channt anew; 

But I cannot mimic it; 
Not a whit of thy tuwhoo. 
Thee to woo to thy tnwhit, 
Thee to woo to thy tnwhit, 
With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
Tuwhoo, tnwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF THE 
ARABIAN NIGHTS 

When the breeze of a joyfnl dawn blew 

free 
In the silken sail of infancy. 
The tide of time flowed back with me. 

The forward-flowing tide of time; 
And many a sheeny summer-mom, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
High- walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn. 

For it was in the golden prime lo 

Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
The low and bloomed foliage, droye 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and dove 
The citron-shadows in the blue; 



By garden porches on the brim. 
The costly doors fluu^ open wide, 
Grold glittering thro' lamplight dim. 
And broider'd sofas on each side. 

In sooth it was a goodly time, ao 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Harouu Alraschid. 

Often, where dear-stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moonlit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep iulay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 30 

A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro' the star-strown calm. 
Until another night in night 
I euter'd, from the clearer light, 
Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they domb 40 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs. A goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward; and the clear canal 

Is rounded to as clear a lake. 

From the green rivage many a fall 

Of diamond rillets musical. 

Thro' little crystal arches low 

Down from the central fountain's flow s« 

Fallen silver-chimin?, seemed to shake 

The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
A goodly place, a goodly time. 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of g^ood Haroun Alraschid. 

Above thro' many a bowery turn 
A walk with vari-colored shells 
Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
All round about the frag^rant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 61 

In order, eastern flowers large. 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closea, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odor in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



ODE TO MEMORY 



IX 



'mt oA, and wbrnn the lemon grove 
■ eloecsi eorertitre iipepmng, 
*ke Urii^ ain of middle night 
Kad loaad the hulbal as he sung; 70 

(oi he, hut eomething which possesa'd 
Che darkness of the world, delight, 
Jife, anguish, death, immOTtal love, 
leasing not, mingled, nnrepress'd. 
Apart from place, withholding time, 
Bat flattering the golden prime 
Of good lutfoun Alraschid. 

Blaek the garden-howers and grots 
^lamber'd; the solemn palms were ranged 
AWfe, nnwoo*d of summer wind; 80 

A ndden splendor from behind 
Fhttk*d all the leaves with rich gold-green. 
And, Howiug rapidly between 
Their ioterspaoes, counterchansed 
IW level lake with diamoiid-pTots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

IWk-Uoe the deep sphere overhead, 
Dirtiact with vivid stars inlaid, 90 

Gfev daricer from that under-flame; 
80, lesping lightly from the boat, 
With sdver anchor left afloat, 
la Barrel whence that glory came 
Upoe ne, as in sleep I sank 
la cool soft turf upon the bank, 
Eatnuieed with that place and time, 
80 worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



thro' the garden I was drawn — 
A rvalm of pleasance, many a mound, 
Aii Baay a shadow-chequered lawn 
Fall of the city's stilly sound, 
Aii deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
TW Mately cedar, tamarisks, 
TWk roaaries of scented thorn. 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
Gmven with emblems of the time, 
la honor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroon Alraschid. 

With daied visioo unawares 
Ffva the long alley's latticed shade 
R aierg ed, I came upon the great 
l^vilion of the Caliphat. 
Kaghi to the carven cedam doors, 
Plngr inward over spangled floors, 
' flights of marble stairs 



101 



I to 



Ran up with golden balustrade, 
A^r the fashion of the time. 
And humor of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of nieht new-risen, that marvellous time 
To celebrate the golden prime 131 

Of good Hairoun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 

Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 

Serene with argent-lidded eyes 

Amorous, and bshes like to rays 

Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 

Tressed with redolent ebony. 

In many a dark delicious curl. 

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 140 
The sweetest lady of the time, 
Well worthv of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper'd 
With inwrought flowers, a doth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirrd 150 
With merriment of kingly pride. 
Sole star of all that place and time, 
I saw him — in his golden prime, 
The Good Habouk Alraachid. 

ODE TO MEMORY 

ADDRESSED TO 

The 1830 Tolume, instead of * Addreved to 
— ^,* has * Written very Early in Life.* 



Tnou who steolest fire. 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present, O, naste. 

Visit my low desire ! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me I 
I faint in this obscurity. 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



X2 



JUVENILIA 



II 

Come not at thoa earnest of late, 
FUnging the (*loom of yestenugfat 
On the white daj, hat robed in soften'd 
light lo 

Of orient state. 
Whilome thou earnest with the morning 
mist, 
Eren as a maid, whoee stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have 
kiss'd. 

When she, as thou. 
Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits. 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



ao 



III 



Whilome thou camest with the morning 
mist. 
And with the evening cloud. 
Showering thy gleaned wealth into my 

open breast; 
Thoee peerless flowers which in the rudest 
wind 

Never grow sere. 
When rooted in the garden of the mind, 
Because they are the earliest of the year. 
Nor was the night thy shroud. 
In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant 
Hope. JO 

The eddying of her garments caught from 

thee 
The light of thy great presence ; and the 
cope 
Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
Tho' deep not fathomless, 
Was cloven vrith the million stars which 

tremble 
O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
Small thought was there of life's distress; 
For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could 

duU 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and 

beautiful; 
Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 40 
Listening the lordly music flowing from 
^e illimitable years. 
O, strengthen me, enlighten me I 
I faint in this obscurity, 
Thou dewy dawn of memory. 



IV 

Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 

Thou of the many tongues, ihe myriad 

eyes I 
Thou oomest not with shows of flannting 
vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 
Divinest Memory ! 90 

Thou wert not nursed bv the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shmes 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: 
Come from the woods that belt the gray 

hillside. 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father's door, 
And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand. 
Or dimple in the dark of rushy ooves, 60 
Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

£1 every elbow and turn. 
The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland; 

O, hither lead thy feet ! 
Four round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled 
folds. 
Upon the ridged wolds. 
When the first matin-song hath waken*d 

loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 
What time the amber mom 70 

Forth gushes from beneath a low -hung 
cloud. 



Luge dowries doth the raptured eye 
T^ the young spirit present 
When first she is wed. 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led. 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal flowers. 
Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
In setting round thy first experiment Si 
With royal framework of wrought 
gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy first 

essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls; 
For the discovery 



A CHARACTER 



13 



kdwnrmm of thine mrt to plotaed thee 
Till in iHiieh thoo hast drawn of fairest 
Or boUest ainee hut lightly weighs 90 

Will thee onto the love then h^rest 
Thi InMwni of thr genius. Artist-like, 
Sfvietiring thoa dost gase 
Oft tk pffime lahor of tmne earl j dajs» 
IsBilter what the sketch might be: 
Wktiber the high field on the hushless 

pike. 
Or tfea a sand-lmilt ridge 
Of ksped hills that mound the sea, 
Omblown with murmurs harsh, 
Ortfea a lowlj cottage whence we see too 
8M8h*d wide and wild the waste enor- 
mous marsh, 
Whoe from the frequent bridge. 
Lib aablems of infinity, 
1W treoehed waters ruu from sky to sky; 
Orsgsrden bower'd close 
Witk plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 
LflSf alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
Orcpeoing upon level plots 
Of erowned lilies, standiug near 
Niple-tpiked lavender: 
Wktber in after life retired 
Frm brawling storms, 
Frm weary wiod, 
With joatbful fancy re-iospired, 
Wt iMy hold conTcrse with all forms 
Of thi many-sided mind. 
Aid tboie whom passion hath not Uinded, 
fiibtle-thooghted, myriad-minded. 



110 



Sfrieod, with you to live alone 
-te bow much better than to own 
i oewn, a seeptre, and a throne ! 



ISO 



0, ftreDgtben me, enlighten me ! 
I fust in this obscurity, 
Ibea dewy dawn of memory. 



SONG 



A kffsrr haonts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers. 

To himself he talks; 
For at erentide, listening earnestly. 
At hb work yon may near him sob and 
sigh 
In the walks; 
Earthward he boweth the henry stalks 
Of the Booldering flowers. 



Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 

Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

II 

The air is damp, and hush'd, and cloee. 
As a sick man's room when he taketh 
repose 
An hour before death; 
My very heart faints and my whole soul 

grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting 
leaves. 
And the breath 
Of the fadiuff edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 



A CHARACTER 

With a half-glance upon the sky 
At nieht he said, ' The wanderings 
Of this most intricate Universe 
Teach me the nothingness of things; * 
Tet could not all creation pierce 
Beyond the bottom of his eye. 

He spake of beauty: that the dull 

Saw no divinity in grass. 

Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 

Then looking as 't were m a glass. 

He smooth'd his chin and sleek *il his hair, 

And said the earth was beautiful. 

He spake of virtue: not the gods 
More purely when they wish to charm 
Pallas and Juno sitting by; 
And with a sweeping of the arm. 
And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
Devolved his rounded periods. 

Most delicately hour by hour 
He canvass'd human mysteries. 
And trod on silk, as if the winds 
Blew his own praiies in his eyes. 
And stood aloof from other minds 
In impotence of fancied power. 

With lips depress'd as he were meek» 
Himself unto himself he sold: 



t4 



JUVENILIA 



Upon himself himself did feed; 
Qaiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
And other than his form of creed, 
With chisell'd features dear and sleek. 



THE POET 

THKjpoet in a golden clime was horn, 

With golden stars ahoTe; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn 
of scorn, 
The love of love. 

He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and 

ill, 

He saw thro' his own sonl. 
The marvel of the eyerlasting will. 
An open scroll, 

Before him lay; with echoing feet he 
threaded 
The secretest walks of fame: 
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were 
headed 
And wing'd with flame, 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
tongue, 
And of so fierce a flight. 
From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
Filling with light 

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 

Them earthward till they lit; 
Then, like the arrow -seeds of the field 
flower. 

The fruitful wit 

Cleaving took root, and springing forth 
anew 
Where'er they fell, behold, 
like to the mother plant in semblance, 
grew 

A flower all gold. 

And bravely furnish 'd all abroad to fling 

The winged shafts of truth. 
To throng with stately blooms the breath- 
ing spring 

Of Hope and Touth. 

So many minds did gird their orbs with 
beams, 
Tho' one did fling the fire; 



Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many 
dreams 

Of high desire. 

Thus truth was multiplied on trath, the 
world 
Like one great garden show'd. 
And thro' the wreaths of floating dark up- 
ourl'd, 

Kare sunrise flow'd. 

And Freedom rear'd in that anguat nmrise 

Her beautiful bold brow. 
When rites and forms before his baming 
eyes 

Melted like snow. 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes 

Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
But round about the circles of the globes 
Of her keen eyes 

And in her raiment's hem was traced in 
flame 
Wisdom, a name to shake 
All evil dreams of power — a saered name. 
And when she spake. 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran. 

And as the lightning to the thunder 
Which follows it, riving the spirit of man. 
Making earth wonder. 

So was their meaning to her words. No 
sword 
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd. 
But one poor poet's scroll, and with hiM 
word 
She shook the world. 



THE POET'S MIND 



Vex not thou the poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit; 
Vex not thou the poet's mind. 

For thou canst not fathom it. 
Clear and bright it should be ever. 
Flowing like a crystal river. 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

II 

Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 
All the place is holy gronnd; 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 



»5 



Hallow SBiila and f roieii toeer 
CoaM not here. 
HoljT wmler will I poor 
lato •v«i7 spioj flower 
Of Um ]MU«l-«hrulw that hedge it aroand. 
TW flowen would faint at your cruel 



Li jQ«r eje there ia death, 
Thato ia mat in your breath 
Whieh would blight the planta. 
Where you itand you cauuot hear 
From the groves within 
The wild-bird's diu. 
Ib tke heart of the gardcu the merry bird 

ehanta. 
It woald hJ\ to the ground if you eame in. 
Ib the middle leaps a fountain 
Like sheet lightning, 
Ever brightening 
With a low melodious thunder; 
All day and all night it is ever drawn 
From the brain of the purple mountain 
Whieh staocb in the distance yonder. 
It MmugB on a level of bowery Uwn, 
Ami the mountain draws it from heaven 

above, 
Aad it sings a song of undying love; 
Aad yet, tbo' its voice be so dear and full. 
Too oever would hear it, your ears are so 

doll; 
So keep where you are; you arc foul with 



It woold shrink to the earth if you came in. 



THE SEA-FAIRIES 

FifliS printed hi IKV), bnt sapprened until 
lft53t« win it apptared, with nmny ehanges, in 
the 9ch editkm of the * Poems.' 



saO'd the weary mariners and saw, 
BcCwizt the green brink and the running 

foam. 
Sweet faeea, roonded arms, and bosoms 

prest 
To little harps of gold; and while they 

mnsed« 
Whhmeriag to each other half in fear, 
Skgiu mnsie reaeh'd them on the middle 



Whither away, whither away, whither 

away ? flr no more. 
Whithor away from the high green ilehl, 

•ad tho hi^py bloaaonuiif ihort T 



Day and night to the billow the fountain 

calls; 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls lo 
From wandering over the lea; 
Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
And thick with white bells the clover-hill 

swells 
High over the full-toned sea. 
O, hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
Come hither to me and to me; 
Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 
Here it is only the mew that wails; 
We will sing to you all the day. ao 

Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 
And the spangle dances in bight and bay. 
And the rainbow forms and flies on the 

land 
Over the islands free; 
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the 

sand; 
Hither, come hither and see; 
And the rainbow hangs on the poising 

wave. 
And sweet is the color of cove and cave, 30 
And sweet shall your welcome be. 
O, hither, come hither, and be our lords. 
For merry brides are we. 
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet 

words; 
O, listen, listen, your eyes shaU glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee. 
O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
W*hen tho sharp clear twang of the golden 

chords 
Runs up the ridged sea. 
Who can light on as happy a shore 40 

All the world o'er, all the world o*er ? 
Whither away? listen and stay; mariner, 

mariner, fly no more. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 

First priut4^ m 18.%, omitted m 1842, bnt 
afterwaids restored without change. 



Life and Thought have gone away 

Side by side. 

Leaving door and windows wi 
Careless tenants they I 



x6 



JUVENILIA 



II 



All within is dark as nighi: 
In the windows is no light; 
And no murmur at the door» 
So frequent on its hinge before. 



Ill 



Close the door, the shutters close. 
Or thro' the windows we shidl 
The nakedness and yaoancy 

Of the dark deserted house. 



IV 



Come away; no more of mirth 

Is here or merry-making sound. 

The house was builded of the earth, 
And shall hXL again to ground. 



Come away; for Life and Thought 

Here no longer dwell. 
But in a city glorious — 
A great and distant city — have bought 

A mansion incorruptible. 
Would they could have stayed with us I 



THE DYING SWAN 



The plain was grassy, wild and bare. 
Wide, wild, and open to the air. 
Which had built up everywhere 

An under-roof of doleful gray. 
With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan. 
And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 
Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went, lo 

II 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
And white against the cold-white sky 
Shone out their crownine snows. 

One vrillow over the nver wept, 
And shook the wave as the wina did sigh; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 

Chasing itself at its own wild vrill, 

And far thro' the marish green and 
still 

The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 
jellow* i» 



ni 

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
EEidden in sorrow. At first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear; 
And floating about the under-sky. 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 
But anon her awful jubilant voice. 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; )o 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harpe 

of gold. 
And the tumult of their acclaim is xoll'd 
Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening 

star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering 

weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank. 
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 
And the wave-worn horns of the echoiiig 

bank. 
And the silvery marish - flowers that 

throng 40 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 

A DIRGE 

I 

Now is done thy long day's work; 
Fold thy palms across thy breast. 
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 

Let them rave. 
Shadows of the silver birk 
Sweep the green that folds thy graTe. 

Let them rave. 

II 

Thee nor carketh care nor slander; 
Nothing but the small cold worm 
Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 

Let them rave. 
Light and shadow ever wander 
O'er the green that folds thy grave. 

Let them rave. 

Ill 

Thou vrilt not turn upon thy bed; 
Chaunteth not the brooding bee 
Sweeter tones Uian calumny ? 
{/et them rave. 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 



n 



■at 




thiiM iMftd 
thftt foldi thj graTe. 



IV 

wtpt tMot for thee; 
llivMdlneaMl eriateie 
A^iMitar dews tLui tndtor's tear. 

Lei tlwm raTe. 
Sm adkee nmsie in the tree 
(tetkt men that folda thy gniTe. 

Lei them rare. 



thee hlow, telf-pleaehed deep, 
b roeee, faint and pale, 
lo^ parplee of the dale. 

Let themraTe. 
ia eveiy ehower creep 
the green that f oldt to j giaTO. 

lletthein raTO. 



VI 

Iht eeld-ered kingenpe fine, 
Iht frail Unebell peereth over 
Man bnnderj of the pnrple cloTor. 

Let them rave. 
liHi have no each eonch as thine, 
it the green that folds thy giETe. 

Let then raTe* 

vn 

W3d words wander here and there; 
Ged's great gift of speech ahnsed 



Makea thj memory confused; 

Bat let them rsTe. 
The halas-eridcet carols clear 
la the green that folds thy graTO. 

Let them raTC. 



LOVE AND DEATH 

Wbat time the mighty moon was gather- 
ing light 
Late paead the thymr plots of Paradise, 
Aad ail ahoot him nAVa his lostroos eyes; 
When, taming round a cassia, full in riew, 
Death, walking all alone heuMth a yew. 
And talking to himeelf, first met his sight. 
•Ten mnst hegone,' said Death, 'these 

walks are mine.* 
Late wept and spread his sheeny Tans for 

frgfat; 
Tel en he parted said, « This hoar is thiaa; 



Thou art the shadow of life, and as the 

tree 
Stands in the sun and shadows all heneath, 
So in the light of great eternity 
Life eminent creates the shade of death. 
The shadow passeth when the tree shall 

fall, 
But I shall reign for erer orer alL' 



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA 

Mt heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 
There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 
When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with 

snow. 
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone I wander to and f ro^ 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growings m 

Oriana, 
At midnight the cock was crowing, 

Oriana; 
Winds were blowing, waters flowing^ 
We heard the steecU to battle going, 

Oriana, 
Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, sa 

Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 
While* blissful tears blinded my light 

By .U«hiae and by moonlight "^ 
Onana, 

I to thee mj troth did plight, 

Oriana. 

She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana; 
She watch'd my crest among them all, it 

Oriana; 
She saw me fight, she heard me call. 
When forth there stept a foeman taU, 

Oriana, 
Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went asidSt 
Oriana; 



i8 



JUVENILIA 



Tlie fidse, false arrow went aside, 

Oriana; 40 

Hie danuied arrow glanced aside, 

And pierced thj hevt, my love, mj bride, 
Oriana! 

TI1J heart, my life, my lore, my bride, 
Oriana I 

O, narrow, narrow was the space, 

Oriana! 
Load, load rung out the bugle's brays, 

Oriana. 
O, death fnl stabs were dealt apace, 50 

The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Onana; 
But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriaua! 
How could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 
How could I look upon the day ? 
They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 

Oriana — 61 

They should have trod me into clay, 

Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana! 

pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 
Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. 
And then the tears run down my cheek, 

Oriana. 70 

What wantest thou ? whom dost thoa seek, 

Oriana? 

1 cry aloud; none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou comest atween me and the skies, 

Oriana. 
I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within thy heart my arrow lies. So 

Oriana. 

O cursed hand I O cursed blow I 

Oriana ! 
O happy thou that liest low, 

Oriana! 
All nig^t the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 



I 



A weary, weary way I go, 
Oriana! 

When Norland winds pipe down the 

Oriana, 
I walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou liest beneath the greenwood trae^ 
I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 
I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 



CIRCUMSTANCE 

Two children iu two neighbor villages 
Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; 
Two strangers meeting at a festival; 
Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall: 
Two lives bound fast in one with golden 

ease; 
Two graves grass -green beside a gray 

church-tower, 
Wash'd with still rains and daisy -hl<»> 

soraed; 
Two children in one hamlet bom and bred: 
So runs the round of life from hoar to 

hour. 



THE MERMAN 



Who would be 

A merman bold. 

Sitting alone, 

Sineing'alone 

Under the sea, 

With a crown of gold. 

On a throne ? 

II 

I wonld be a merman bold, 
I would sit and sing the whole of the day; 
I would fill the sea-halls with a voice 01 

power; 
But at night I would roam abroad and 

With the mermaids in and out of the rocks. 
Dressing their hair with the white sea* 

flower; 
And holding them back by their flowing 

locks 
I woold kias them often under the sea, 



THE MERMAID 



19 



Uwni •fmin till they ki88*d me 
iMMfjtangijf iMiehinglv; 
Amd then w« woula wander away, away, 
To Uw ^ale-green lea^-groTes straight and 
high, 
Ckanag each other merrily. 

Ill 

TWn wvNiki be neither moon nor star; 
hm\ the wave would make mnsio above us 

afar — 
ham thander and light in the magic night — 

Neither moon uor star. 
We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
Call to each other and whoop and cry 

All night, merrily, merrily. 
Tliey would. pelt me with starry spangles 

and shells, 
Laagfaing and clapping their hands be- 
tween. 

All niffht, merrily, merrily. 
But I would thpow to them back in mine 
TbiUs and agate and aluiondine; 
Than leaping ont upon them unseen 
I woold kisa them often under the sea, 
Aad kiss them again till they kiss'd me 

L^agbingly, laughingly. 
O, what a happy life were mine 
Tnder the hollow-hung ocean green I 
Soft are the moas-beds under the sea; 
We would liye merrily, merrily. 



THE MEKMAID 

I 

Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Singing alone. 
Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 
In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl. 
On a throne? 

II 

I would be a mermaid fair; 
f woald sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
With a comb of pearl I would oomb my 

hair; 

Amd still as I eomb'd I would sing and say, 

* Who is it lores me ? who loves not me ? ' 

I woold eomb my hair till my ringlets 

wooMUl 

Low adowBt low adowi. 



From under my starry sea-bad crown 

Low adown and around. 
And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the ball; 
Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From bis coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate> and look in at 

the gate 
With his large calm eyes for the love of 

me. 
And all the mermen under the sea 
Would feel their immortality 
Die in their hearts for the love of me. 

Ill 

But at nieht I would wander away, away, 
I would fling on each side my low-flow- 
ing locks. 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the 

rocks; 
We would run to and fro, and hide and 

seek. 
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson 

shells, 
W^hose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
But if any came near I would call, and 

shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would 

leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from 

the dells; 
For I would not be kiss*d by all who would 

list 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea. 
They would sue me, and woo me, and flat- 

ter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea; 
But the king of them all would carry me, 
Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
In the branching jaspers under the sea. 
Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently, 
All looking up for the love of me. 
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and homed, and 

soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of 

the sea, 
All looking down for the lore of nm. 



so 



JUVENILIA 



ADELINE 



Mtbtert of mjsteriesy 

Faintly Bimling Adeline, 
Scarce of earth nor all diYine, 

Nor unhapp J, nor at rest, 

But beyond expression fair 
With thy floating flaxen hair; 

Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 

Take the heart from ont mv breast. 
Wherefore those dim looks of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

II 

Whence that aery bloom of thine. 

Like a lily which the sun 
Looks thro' in his sad decline. 

And a rose-bush leans upon. 
Thou that faintly smilest still, 

As a Naiad in a well, 

Looking at the set of day. 
Or a phantom two hours old 

Of a maiden past away. 
Ere the placid hps be cold ? 
Wherefore those faint smiles' of thine, 

Spiritual Adeline ? 

in 

What hope or fear or joy is thine ? 
Who talketh with thee, Adeline ? 
For sure thou art not all alone. 

Do beating hearts of salient springs 
Keep measure with thine own ? 
JUast thou heard the butterflies 
What they say betwixt their wings ? 
Or in stillest evenings 
With what Yoice the violet woos 
To his heart the silver dews ? 
Or when little airs arise, 
How the merry bluebell rings 
To the mosses underneath ? 
Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
Of the lilies at sunrise ? 
Wherefore that faint smile of thine. 
Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 

IV 

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind. 
Some spirit of a crimson rose 
In love with thee forgets to close 
His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 

All night long on darkness blind. 

What aileth 3iee ? whom waitest thou 



With thy soften' d, shadow'd brow, 
And Uiose dew-lit eyes of thiiia^ 
Thoa faint smiler, Adeline ? 



Lovest thou the doleful wind 

When thou gazest at the skies ? 

Doth the low-tongued Orient 

Wander from the side of the mor% 
Dripping with Sab»an spioe 

On thy pUlow, lowly bent 

With melodious airs lovelorn. 

Breathing Lieht aeainst thy face. 

While his locks a-orooping twined 

Round thy neck in subtle ring 

Make a caroanet of rays. 

And ye talk together still. 

In the language wherewith Spring 
Letters cowslips on the hill ? 

Hence that look and snule of thine. 
Spiritual Adeline. 



MARGARET 

Flirt printed in 1838 ; reprinted with sUgli* 
changes (see Notes) in 1842. 



O SWEET pale Margaret, 
O rare pale Margaret, 
What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
Like moonlight on a falling shower ? 
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 
Your melancholy sweet and frad 
As perfume of the cuckoo flower ? 
From the westward-vrinding flood. 
From the evening-lighted wood, 

From all tbongs outward you have 
won 
A tearful grace, as tho' you rtood 

Between the rainbow and the sun. 
The very smile before you speak, 
That dimples your transparent cheek. 
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
The senses with a still delight 
Of dainty sorrow without sound. 
Like the tender amber round 
Which the moon about her spreadeth 
Moving thro' a fleecy night. 

II 

Yon love, remaining peacefully. 
To hear the murmur of the s 



RQSALIND 



21 



Bat •Bter not the toil of life, 
•pint it the ealmed sea, 

Lud hj the tomolt of the Eght 
T<M mre the eTening etar, alway 

RefiMuaing hetwixt dark and bright; 
Lall'd eehoes of laborious day 

Coflne to TOO, gleams of mellow light 

float by yoa on the yerge of night 

ni 

Wbat ean it matter, Margaret, 

What songs below the waning stars 

The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 

8ang looking thro his prison bars ? 

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 

The last wild thought of Chatelet, 
Just ere the falling axe did part 
The homing brain from the true heart, 

Etob in her sight he loved so well ? 



IV 

A. fairy shield yonr Genios made 

And gave yon on your natal day. 
Toor sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 

Keeps real sorrow far away. 
Too move not in such solitudes, 

Yon are not less divine. 
Bat more human in yonr moods. 

Than vonr twin-sister, Adeline. 
Tomr hair is darker, and your eves 

Touch'd with a somewhat <iarker hue, 

And less aerially blue. 

Bat ever trembling thro' the dew 
Of daiaty-woefnl sympathies. 



O sweet pale Margaret, 

O rare pale Margaret, 
Cooie down, come down, and hear me 

speak. 
Tie vp tne ringlets on yonr cheek. 

The son is jnst about to set. 
The arching limes are tall and shady. 

And faint, rainy lights are seen. 

Moving in the leavy beech. 
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady. 

Where all day long you sit between 

Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
Or only look across the lawn, 

Look <Njt below yonr bower-eaves. 
Look down, and let yonr blue eyes dawn 
Upon ne thro' the jasouBO-lMTM* 



ROSALIND 

Printed in 1838, but soppiessed rata 1884 
See Notes. 

I 

Mt Rosalind, my Rosalind, 

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 

Wnose free delight, from any height of 

rapid flight. 
Stoops at all game that wing the skies. 
My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
My bright-eved, wild-eyed falcon, whither. 
Careless both of wind and weather, 
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye. 
Up or down the streaming wmd ? 

II 

The quick lark's closeat-caroll'd strains. 
The shadow rushing up the sea. 
The lightning flash atween the rains, 
The sunlight driving down the lea. 
The leaping stream, the very wind, 
That will not stay, upon his wav. 
To stoop the cowslip to the plains, 
Is not so clear and bold and free . 
As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
You care not for another's pains. 
Because yon are the soul of joy, 
Bright metal all without alloy. 
Life shoots and glances thro' yonr veiniy 
And flashes off a thousand ways, 
Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, 
Keen with triump'*, watching still 
To pierce me thro' with pointed light; 
But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
Like sunshine on a dancing rill. 
And your words are seeming-bitter^ 
Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
From excess of swift delight 

III 

Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
My ray young hawk, my Rosalind. 
Too long you keep the upper skies; 
Too long you roam and wheel at will ; 
But we must hood your random eyes. 
That care not whom thev kill. 
And your cheek, whose brillisint hue 
Is so sparkling-fresh to view. 
Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
Fast, fast, n^v wild-eyed Boialiad. 



32 



JUVENIJ-IA 



Aud clip your wings, and make you love. 
When we have lured you from above, 
And that delight of frolic flight, by day or 

night, 
From North to South, 
We '11 bind yon fast iu silken corda, 
And kiss away the bitter words 
From off your rosy mouth. 

ELEANORE 

Benrinted in 1842 from the 1833 volnme. 
See Notes. 

I 

Thy dark eyes open'd not, 

Nor first reveal'd themselves to English 

air, 
For there is nothing here 
Which, from the outward to the inward 

brought, 
Moulded thy baby thought. 
Far off from human neighborhood 

Tbou wert bom, on a summer mom, 
A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 

With breezes from our oaken glades, to 
But tbou wert nursed in some delicious 
land 
Of lavish lights, and floating shades; 
And flattering thy childish thought 
The oriental iairj brought. 

At the moment of thy birth. 
From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
And the hearts of purple hills. 
And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. 

The choicest wealth of all the earth, 
Jewel or shell, or starry ore, ao 

To deck thy cradle, Ele&nore. 

n 

Or the yellow-banded bees. 
Thro' half-opeu lattices 
Coming in the scented breeze, 
Fed thee, a child, lying alone. 

With whitest honey in fairy gardens 
cuU'd — 
A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down« 
With the hum of swarming be^ 

Into dreamful slumber Inll'd. y» 

III 

Who may minister to thee ? 
Slimmer borself should minister 



To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
On golden salvers, or it may be. 
Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blind* 
With many a deep-hued beU-like flower 
Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
And the crag that fronts the even, 
All along the shadowing shore. 
Crimsons over an inland mere, 

Eleanore 1 



IV 

How may fnll-sail'd verse express. 

How may measured words adore 
The full-flowing harmony 
Of thy swan-like stateliness, 

Eleanore? 
The luxuriant symmetry 
Of thy floating nacef ulness, 

Eleanore? 
Every turn and glance of thine. 
Every lineament divine, 

EleiLnore, 
And the steady sunset glow 
That stays upon thee ? For in thee 
Is nothing sudden, nothing single; 
Like two streams of incense free 
From one censer in one shrine. 
Thought and motion mingle. 
Mingle ever. Motions flow 
To one another, even as tho' 
They were modulated so 
To an unheard melody, 
Which lives about thee, and a sweep 

Of richest pauses, evermore 
Drawn from each other mellow-deep; 
Who may express thee, Eleftnore ? 



I stand before thee, Eleftnore; 

I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
Daily and hourly, more and more. 
I muse, as in a trance, the while 

Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. 
I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 

The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
Float on to me. I would I were 

So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies, 
To stand apart, and to adore, 
Gaxing on thee for evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleihioie t 



KATE 



23 



VI 



SometinieB, with mosi intensity 

Gmiiiig, I aeem to see 

Thoa^t folded oyer thought, smiling 

■sleep, 
Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 
In thy large eyes that, overpowered quite, 
I cannot yeil or droop my sight, 
Bat am as nothing in its light. 
As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
Even while we gaze on it, 90 

Sboald slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 
To a full face, there like a sun remain 
Fiz'd — then as slowly fade aeain. 

And draw itself to what it was before; 
So full, so deep, so slow. 
Thought seems to come and go 

£1 thy large eyes, imperul Elettnore. 

VII 

As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
RooFd the world with doubt and fear. 
Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
Grow golden all about the sky; 
In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
Tooeh'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
Losing his fire and active might 

In a silent meditation. 
Falling into a still delight. 

And luxury of contemplation. 
Aa waves that up a quiet cove 
Rolling slide, and lying still 
Shadow forth the banks at will, 
Or sometimes they swell and move. 
Pressing up against the land 
With motions of the outer sea; 
And the self-same influence 
Controlleth all the soul and sense 

Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
His how-string slacken d, languid Love, 
Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
Droops both his wings, regarding thee 
And so would languish evermore, 
Serene, imperial Eleanore. 



100 



no 



f 

S20 



VIII 

But when I see thee roam, with tresses un- 

oonfined. 
While the amorous odorous wind 
Breathes low between the sunset and the 

moon; 
Or, in a shadowy saloon. 
On silken cnshions half reclined; 

I watch thy grace, and in its place 



My heart a charmed slumber keeps. 

While I muse upon thy face; 
And a languid fire creeps 130 

Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
Dissolvingiy and slowly. Soon 

From thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, 
With dinning sound my ears are rife. 
My tremulous toneue faltereth, 
I lose my color, I lose my breath, 
I drink the cup of a costly death, 
Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warm* 
est life. 
I die with my delight before 140 

I hear what I would hear from thee; 
Yet tell my name again to me* 
I loould be dyiii^ evermore. 
So dying ever, Lleftnore. 



KATE 

Pint printed in 1833, but suppressed until 
after the poeVs deaths and not included in any 
authorized edition until 1897. 

I KNOW her by her angry sir. 
Her bright black eyes, her bright black 
hair, 

Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, 
As laughters of the woodpecker 

From the bosom of a hill. 

'T is Kste — she sayeth what she will; 
For Kate hath an unbridled tongue. 

Clear as the twanging of a harp. 

Her heart is like a throbbing star. 
Kate hath a spirit ever strung 

Like a new bow, and bright and sharp 

As edges of the scimitar. 
Whence shall she take a fitting mate ? 

For Kate no common love will feel; 
My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, 

As pure and true as blades of steel. 

Kate saith * the world is void of might.' 
Kate saith * the men are gilded flies.' 

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; 
Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. 
I would I were an armed knight, 
Far-famed for well- won enterprise. 

And wearing on my swarthy brows 
The garland of new- wreathed emprise; 

For in a moment I would pierce 
The blackest files of clanging fight. 
And strongly strike to left and right. 



a4 



JUVENILIA 



In dzeamiiu^ of my lady's eyes. 

O, Kate toves well the bold and fierce; 
fint none are bold enoagh for Kate, 
She cannot find a fitting mate. 

•MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY 

DAYS* 

Fint printed in 1833, with the heading, ' To 
— .' The fint two stanzas were not reprioted 
nntil 1865, when they appeared in the Tolnme of 
' Selections * in their present form. The next 
three stamas were added later. See Notes. 

My life is full of weaiy days. 

But good things have not kept aloof, 

Nor wander'd into other ways; 
I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 

Nor golden largess of thy praise. 

And now shake hands across the brink 
Of that deep grave to which I go. 

Shake hands once more; I cannot sink 
So far — far down, but I shall know 
Thy voice, and answer from below. 

When in the darkness over me 
The four-handed mole shall scrape, 

Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree. 

Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
But pledge me in the flowing grape. 

And when the sappy field and wood 
Grow green beneath the showery g^y. 

And rugged barks begin to bud. 
And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with 

may. 
Ring sudden scritches of the jay. 

Then let wise Nature work her will, 
And on my clay her darnel grow; 

Come only, when the days are still. 
And at my headstone whisper low. 
And tell me if the woodbines blow. 



EARLY SONNETS 



TO 

This and the third sonnet were in the 1838 
volume, but were sappressed in 1842. 

As when with downcast eyes we muse and 

brood. 
And ebb into a former life, or seem 



To lapse far back in some oonfosed dveam 
To states of mystical similitude. 
If one but speaks or hems or stirs his ehAii^ 
Ever the wonder wazeth more and more. 
So that we say, * All this hath been bef oce. 
All this hath been, I know not when or 

where;' 
So, friend, when first I look'd upon your 

face. 
Our thought gave answer each to eaeh, W9 

true — 
Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
That, tho' I knew not in what time or plmoe^ 
Methought that I had often met with yon. 
And either lived in cither's heart and 

speech. 

II 
TO J. M. K. 

Reprinted in 1842 from the 1830 volnma. 
Addressed to John Mitchell Kemble (1807- 
1857) who was a fellow-student of the poet at 
Cambridge. 

My hope and heart is with thee — thon wih 

A latter Lnther, and a soldier-priest 

To scare church-harpies from the master^t 

feast; 
Our dusted velvets have much need of 

thee: 
Thon art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws. 
Distilled from some womh-canker'd homily; 
But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy 
To embattail and to wall about thy cause 
With iron-worded proof, hating to hark 
The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone 
Half God's good Sabbath, while the worn- 

out clerk 
Brow-beats his desk below. Thon from a 

throne 
Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and 

mark. 

m 

Mine be the strength of spirit, full and 

free. 
Like some broad river rushing down alone. 
With the selfsame impulse wherewith he 

was thrown 
From his loud fount upon the echoing 

lea; — 
Which with increasing might doth forward 

flee 



EARLY SONNETS 



»S 



■ad tower, and UIl, and cape, and 

m tke middle of the green tali sea 
bit blue wmten fresh for many a 



be the power whieh OTor to its swaj 
WiD wis the wiee at once, and by degrees 
Maj nto naeo ag e n ial spirits flow; 
S^rvB as the warm gnlf-stream of Florida 
Floats far away into the Northern seas 
Tba laTi^ growths of southern Mexico. 

IV 

iX£XANDER 

Pint pebliihed m the * Library Edition ' ol 
tbe*PoeiiM'iBl872. 



Waauob of God, whose strong right arm 

dehased 
Tba throne of Persia, when her Satrap 

bled 
At Isios by the Syrian gates, or fled 
Be yo od the Menunian naphtha-pits, dis- 



For cirer — thee (thy pathway sand-erased) 
Gliding with eqnid crowns two serpents led 
Jejfttl to that palm-planted fouutain-fed 
AmoMNuan Oasis in the waste. 
There in a silent shade of laarel brown 
Apart the Chamian Oracle dirine 
Sheher'd his nnapproached mysteries: 
High things were spoken there, unhanded 

down; 
Only tbey saw thee from the secret shrine 

hot eheek and kindled eyes. 



BUONAPARTE 

aad the next were in the 1883 
bat were sapprMwd in 1842. 

Hx thoQgbt to qnell the stubborn hearts of 

Madflsaaf — to chain with chains, and bind 

with bands 
That island ooeen who sways the floods and 

lands 
From lad to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 
When from her wooden walls, — fit by sure 

hands,— 
With thunders, and with lightnings, and 

with smokes'* 



Peal after peal, the British battle broke, 
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
We taught him lowlier moods, when £lsi- 

nore 
Heard the war moan along the distant sea, 
Rockiuff with shatter'd spars, with sudden 

fires 
Flamed over; at Trafalgar yet once more 
We taught him; late he learned humility 
Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd 

with briers. 



VI 



POLAND 

How long, O God, shall men be ridden 

down. 
And trampled under by the last and least 
Of men? The heart of Poland hath not 

ceased 
To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth 

drown 
The fields, and out of every smouldering 

town 
Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- 
creased. 
Till that o*ergrown Barbarian in the East 
Transgress his ample bound to some new 

crown, — 
Cries to Thee, * Lord, how long shall these 

things be? 
How long Uiis icy-hearted Muscorite 
Oppress the region?' Us, O Just and 

Good, 
Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in 

three ; 
Us, who stand now, when we should aid the 

right — 
A matter to be wept with tears of blood I 

VII 

This sonnet and the two that follow were 
first printed in the ' Selections * of 1865, with 
the headiiv, ' Three Sonneto to a Coquette.* 

Carxss'd or chidden by the slender handy 
And singing airy trifles this or that. 
Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch 

and stand, 
And run thro* every change of sharp and 

flat; 
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
When Sleep had bound her in hi» rosy 

band. 



96 



JUVENILIA 



And olimsed awa^ the stUl-reeoiTiDg gnat, 
And woke her with a lay from fairy land. 
But now they live with Beauty leas and 

leas. 
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, 
Nor eares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; 
And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
Ftoor Faney sadder than a single star. 
That sets at twilight in a land of reeda. 

vm 

Thk form, the form alone is eloquent I 
A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, 
And win all eyes with all accomplishment; 
Yet in the whirling dances as we went. 
My fancy made me for a moment blest 
To find my heart so near the beanteoos 

breast 
That once had power to rob it of content. 
A moment came the tenderness of tears. 
The phantom of a wish that onoe could 

move, 
A ghost of passion that no smiles re- 
store — 
For ah I the slight coquette, she cannot 

love. 
And if yon kiss'd her feet a thousand 



She stiU would take the praise, and care no 
more. 

IX 

Wa2C Sculptor, weepest thou to take the 

east 
Of thoee dead lineaments that near thee lie ? 
O, sotrowest thou, pale Pkinter, for the 

past. 
In p^Stitiwg some dead friend from mem- 
ory? 
Weep on ; bevond his object Love can 

last. 
His object lives; more eanse to weep 

bsve I : 
My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast. 
No tears of love, but tears that Love can 

die. 
I pledge her not in any cheerful cup. 
Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
Ah I pity — hint it not in human tones. 
But breathe it into earth and dose it up 
With seeret death for ever, in the pits 
Whidi some green Christmas eaniM with 



Printed in 1833, but snppcessed in 18^ 

If I were loved, as I desire to be. 

What is there in the great ^here of tiit 

earth. 
And range of evil between death and bift^ 
That I should fear, — if I were loved bj 

thee? 
All the inner, all the enter world of pain 
Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if tlKNi 

wert mine. 
As I have heard that, somewhere in tbe 

main. 
Fresh-water springs come up through bittet 

brine. 
"T were joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-liaiid 

with thee. 
To wait for deadi — mute — eareless of aD 

ills. 
Apart upon a mountain, tho* the surge 
Of some new deluge from a thousand hilla 
Flung leagues of roaring foam into tk/t 

gorge 
Below US, as far on as eye conld 



XI 
THE BRIDESMAID 

First printed in 1872. 

BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot 

tied. 
Thine eyes so wept that they eoold hardly 

Hiy sister smiled and said, ' No tears fot 

me ! 
A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.* 
And then, the couple standing side by side. 
Love lighted down between them full of 

pee. 
And over his left shoulder laagh*d at thee, 
* O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.* 
And sll at once a pleasant truth I leam*d. 
For while the tender service made thee 

weep, 

1 loved thee for the tear tbon coaldst not 

hide. 
And prest thy hand, and knew the press 

returned. 
And thought, 'My life is sids of sii^le 

sleep: 
O hsj^y bridesmaid, make a happy bride I * 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



a? 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



AND OTHER POEMS 




not lepretent a leparate published Tolume, but b found aa a diriaion of the 
of Itsii and the more recent onea. 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT 



t nUilMhad in 1833, and mooh altered in 
IMSL oae floCea. 



o« 



Amd 




PART I 

citker nde the riyer lie 
flakU of barley and of rye, 
cloche the wold and meet the sky; 
thro' the field the ruad runs by 

To many-towered Camelot; 
op and down the people go, 
where the lilies blow 
an island there below. 
The island of Shalott. 



m'lllowf whiten, aspens qniver, 
iMMle breezes dusk and shiver 
TVro* the wave that runs for ever 
By the island in the river 

Flowinfif down to Camelot. 
Focir gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a spaee of flowers, 
Amd the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By tke margin, willow-yeil'd, 
Sfide the heavy barges trail'd 
Br slow hones; and unhail'd 
TW shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
3«t who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the easement seen her stand ? 
Or is she known In all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only rvapen, reaping early 
In among the hemrded barley. 
Hear a aon^ that echoes cheerly 
From the nver winding elearlv, 

Down to tower'd Camelot; 
And by the mooo the reaper weary, 
Filing ihaayes in oplands airy, 
lirtMBg, whiapert 'Tia the fairy 

Lady of Shalott* 



lO 



PART II 

There she weaves by night and day 
A luagio web with colors gay. 
She has beard a whisper say, 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be. 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 
There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot; 
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls. 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
Au abbot on an ambling pad. 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
Or long-hair*d page in crimson clad, 

Gues by to tower'd Camelot; 
And sometimes thro* the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and truoi 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror's magic sights. 
For often thro' the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot; 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed: 
* I am half sick of shadows,' said 

The Lady of Shalott 

PART III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaye% 
He rode between the barley-aheavaa* 



38 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



The sun came dazzlin? thro' the leareSy 
And flamed upon the brazen greayes 

Of bola Sir Lancelot. 
A red-eross knight for ever kneel'd 
To a lady in his shield. 
That sparkled on the yellow field, So 

Mside remote Shalott 

The gemmy bridle elitter'd free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Huns in the golden Gabuy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Uamelot; 
And from his blazon'd baldrio slang 
A mighty silver bogle hong. 
And as he rode his armor rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 90 

All in the bine nnclonded weather 
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Bom'd like one burning flame together. 

As he rode down to CameK>t; 
As often thro' the purple night. 
Below the starry dusters bright. 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 99 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flow'd 
His coal-black curls as on he rode. 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
' Tirra lirra,' by the nver 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 



no 



She left the web, she left the loom. 
She made three paces thro' the room. 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume. 

She look'd down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack'd from side to side; 
* The curse is come upon me,' cried 

The Lady of Shalott 

PART IV 

Li the stormy east-wind straining. 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Hea^y the low sky raining 
Over tower'd Camelot; 



lai 



Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat. 
And round about the prow die wrote 
The Lady 0/ SkahtL 

And down the river's dim expanse 
Like some bold seSr in a tranee. 
Seeing all his own mischanoe — 
With a glassy oountenanoe 1 

Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she layg 
The broad stream boro her fax awaj, 

The Lady of Shalott 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to feft and right — > 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among. 
They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lsdy of Shalott 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
Till her blood was frozen slowly. 
And her eyes wero darkened whollji 

Turned to tower'd Camelot 
For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singingin her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott 



Under tower and balcony. 

By |;arden-wall and gallery, 

A gleamiog shape she floated by. 

Dead-pale between the houses high. 

Silent into Camelot 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knifi^bt and burgher, lord and dame, rte 
And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this ? and what is hero ? 
And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer; 
And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, 'She has a lovely face; 
God in his meroy lend her grace, t|o 

The Lady of Shalott' 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 



29 



ISIS tkat 



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH 



ia 1833, Vut ehaoged lo much 
w fiv« tha ofigiiud form in full 



black shadow at its feet, 
TW hoiisa thro' 1^ the level shineSy 
Cloag lattieed to the brooding heat, 

And lilent in its dosty vines; 
A &iiit-bliie ridge npon the right, 
An emptv river-bed before, 
Aad bImItows on a distant shore, 
bi giaring sand and inlets bright. 

fiat ' Ave Mary,' made she moan, 9 

And ' Ave Mary,' night and mom. 
And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone, 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

Sbe, as her earol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowly down 
T^io' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and riefat, and made appear 
SdU-ligbtecTin a secret shrine 
Her melancholy eyes divine, 
Tbe home of woe without a t^. ao 

And * Ave Mary,' was her moan, 

'Madonna, sad is night and mom,' 
And * Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

Till all the crimson changed, and past 

Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
Low 00 her knees herself she cast, 
Before Onr Lady mnrrour'd she; 
Complaining, ' Mother, give me eraoe 
To help me of mv weary load. 30 

And on the liquicl mirror elow'd 
The elear perfection of her face. 

* Is this the form,' she made her moan, 
'That won his praises night and 
mora ?' 
And ' Ah,' she said, ' but I wake alone, 
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.' 

Kor bird wonld sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
Kor any cloud wonld cross the vault. 

Bat day inereased from heat to heat, 
On stony dronght and steaming salt; 40 

Tin now tA noon she slept again. 
And seem'd knee-aeep in mountain 

Aad nemrd her native breeies pass, 
Aad raalati babbling down the glen. 



She breathed in sleep a lower moan. 
And murmuring, as at night and 
morn. 

She thought, ' My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream; 

She felt he was and was not there. 9a 
She woke; the babble of the stream 

Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one sick willow sere and smalL 
The river-bed was dusty- white; 
And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding walL 
She wbisper'd, with a stifled moan 

More inward than at night or mora, 
' Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 60 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 

Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
For ' Love,' they said, 'must needs be trae. 

To what is loveliest upon earth.' 
An image seem'd to pass the door. 
To look at her with slight, and say 
' Hut now thy beauty flows away. 
So be alone for evermore.' 

' O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, 

' And cruel love, whofte end is scorn. 

Is this the end, to be left alone, 71 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn ? ' 

But sometimes in the falling day 

An image seem'd to pass the door, 
To look into her eyes and say, 

' But tbou 8ha!t be alone no more.' 
And flaming downward over all 
From heat to heat the day decreased. 
And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 80 
'The day to night,' she made her 
moan, 
^The day to night, the night to 
mora« 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.' 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea; 
Backward the lattice-blind she flung. 

And lean'd upon the balcony. 
There all in upaces rosy-bright 

I^arge Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 90 

And deepening thro' the silent spheres 
Heaven over heaven rose the night. 



30 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



And weeping then the made bermoan, 
' The night oomes on that knows not 
mom, 

When I shall cease to be all alone. 
To live forgotten, and love forloin.' 



THE TWO VOICES 

Written in a period (1833) of great depre»- 
■ion consequent npon the death of his sister. 

A STILL small roice spake unto me, 
' Thou art so full of misery, 
Were it not better not to be ? * 

Then to the still small voice I said: 
' Let me not east in endless shade 
What is so wonderfully made.' 

To which the voice did nrge reply: 

' To-day I saw the dragoo-Hy 

Come from the wells where he did lie. 



lO 



* An inner impulse rent the veil 
Of his old husk; from head to tail 
Came out clear plates of sapphire nuuL 



* He dried his wings; like gauze they grew; 
Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
A living flash of light he flew.' 

I said: ' When first the world began. 
Young Nature thro' five cycles ran. 
And iu the sixth she moulded man. 

' She gave him mind, the lordliest 
Proportion, and, above the rest, ao 

Dominion in the head and breast.' 

Thereto the silent voice replied: 

' Self- blinded are you by your pnde; 

Look up thro' night; the world is wide. 

- This truth within thy mind rehearse. 

That in a boundless universe 

Is boundless better, boundless worse. 

' Think yon this mould of hopes and fears 

Could find no statelier than his peers 

In yonder hundred million spheres ? ' 30 

It spake, moreover, in my mind: 

' Tho' thon wert scatter'd to the wind. 

Yet is then plenty of the kind.' 



Then did my response cleaxer fall: 

* No compound of this earthly ball 
Is like another, all in alL' 

To which he answer'd seoffingly: 
' Good soul I suppose I gnmt it 
Who '11 weep for thy deficieiiej ? 

* Or will one beam be less intense. 
When thy peculiar difference 
Is cancell'd in the world of sense ? * 

I would have said, ' Thon canst not 
But my full heart, that work'd below, 
Raiu'd thro' my sight its overflow. 

Aeain the voice spake unto me: 
' Thou art so steep'd iu misery, 
Surely 't were better not to be. 

* Thine anguish will not let thee sleeps 
Nor any train of reason keep; 3 
Thon canst not think, but thou wilt weep.* 






I said: ' The years with change 
If I make dark my countenance, 
I shut my life from happier chance. 

' Some turn this sickness yet might taka, 
Even yet.' But he: * What drug can nuike 
A wither'd palsy cease to shake ? ' 

I wept: ' Tho' I should die, I know 

That all about the thorn will blow 

In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; «c 

' And men, thro' novel spheres of thoogbt 
Still moving after truth long sought. 
Will learn new things when I am not.* 

' Yet,' said the secret voice, ' some tinM^ 
Sooner or later, will gray prime 
Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 

' Not less swift souls that yearn for light. 
Rapt after heaven's starry flight. 
Would sweep the tracts of day and night. 

* Not less the bee would range her eelli, n 
The furzy priokle fire the dells. 
The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' 

I said that * all the years invent; 
Each month is various to present 
The world with some development. 



THE TWO VOICES 



31 



* Were tlus not well, to bide mine hour, 
Tko* wBtehtnc from a ruiii'd tower 
Haw growB tbe dmy of humao power ?* 

'TW Id g hee t m onnted mind/ be said, 

* Still aeea the taered morning spread 80 
The nlent aommit overiiead. 

* Win tbii^ leaaons render plain 
Tboee lonely lights that still remain, 
Jnst breaking over land and main ? 

* Or make that mom, from his cold crown 
And crystal silence creeping down, 
Flood with fall daylight glebe and town ? 

' Fcyremn th^ poert, thy time, and let 

Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 

In midst of knowledge, dream*d not yet. 90 

* Thon hast not gained a real height, 
Nor art thou nearer to the light. 
Because the scale is infinite. 

' *T were better not to breathe or speak, 
Tluui cry for strength, remaining weak, 
And teem to find, but still to seek. 

' Moteorer, but to seem to find 

Asks what thon lackest, thought resign'd, 

A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' 



1 said : ' When I am gone away, 
* He dared not tarry, ' men will say. 
Doing diahonor to my clay.' 



100 



is more vile,' he made reply, 

* To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh. 
Than once from dread of pain to die. 

• Siek art thon ~ a dirided wiU 
Still heaping on the fear of ill 
The fear of men, a coward still. 

* Do men lore thee ? Art thon so boond 
To men that how thy name may sound im 
Will Tex thee lying undergrouud ? 

• The i nemo r f of the withered leaf 
In endless time u scarce more brief 
Than of the gamer'd autumn-sheaf. 

'Go, Tnzad apirit, sleep in tmst; 
The right ear that is fill'd with dust 
HcMalittle of the false or just' 



' Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, 

' From emptiness and the waste wide 

Of that abyss, or scornful pride I ijo 

* Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
One hope that wartu*d roe in the days 
While still I yearuM for human praise. 

* When, wide in soul and bold of tongue. 
Among the tents I paused and snug, 
The distant battle flashed and rung. 

' I sung the joyful Piean clear. 
And, sitting, bumish'd without fear 
The brand, the buckler, and the spear— 

* Waiting to strive a happy strife, 130 
To war v« ith falsehood to the knife. 

And not to lose the good of life — 

* Some hidden principle to move. 
To put together, part and prove, 

Ana mete the bounds of hate and love — 

* As far as might be, to carve out 
Free space for every human doubt, 
That the whole mind might orb about-— 

' To search thro' all I felt or saw, 

The springs of life, the depths of awe, 140 

And reach the law within the law; 

< At least, not rutting like a weed, 
But, having Hown some generous seed, 
Fruitful of further thought and deed, 

' To pass, when Life her light withdraws. 
Not void of righteous self-applause, 
Nor in a merely selfish cause — 

* In some good cause, not in mine own. 
To perish, wept for, honor*d, known, 

Ana like a warrior overthrown; 150 

' Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
When, soil'd with noblp thint, he hears 
His country's war-song thrill his ears: 

* Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
What time the foemairH line is broke, 
And all the war is roird in smoke.' 



*Tea !* said the voice, 'thy dream 
While thou abod<*st in the bud. 
It was the stirring of the blood» 



good. 



3« 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



* If Nmtme pot not forth ber power 
Aboot the opening of the flower. 
Who 18 it that could liTe an hoar ? 



i6o 



< Then oomet the cheeky the change, the fall. 
Fain rises np, old nieasores palL 
There is one remedj for all. 

*Tet hadst then, thro' endoring pain, 
link'd month to month with snch a chain 
Of knitted purport, all were Tain. 

«Thon hadst not between death and birth 
DiasolTcd the riddle of the earth. 170 

80 were thj labor little worth. 

<niat men with knowledge merely play'd, 
I told thee — hardly nigfaer made, 
Hid* scaling slow from grade to grade; 

' Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind. 
Named man, may hope some truth to find. 
That bears relation to the mind. 

* For CTciT worm heneath the moon 
Draws different threads, and late and soon 
Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. i&> 

'Cry, faint not: either Truth is bom 
Beyond the polar gleam forlorn. 
Or in the gateways of the mom. 

' Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope 
Beyond the fnithest flights of hope. 
Wrapt in dense cloud uom base to cope. 

'Sometimes a little comer shines, 

As over rainy mist inclines 

A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 

' I win go forward, sayest thou, 
I shall not fail to &id her now. 
Look up, the fold is on her brow. 

' If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
TVni know'st not. Shadows thoa dost 

strike. 
Embracing cloud, Ldon-like; 

* And owning but a little more 
Than beasts, abidest lame and poor. 
Calling thyself a little lower 

•Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
Why indi by inch to darkness erawl ? aoo 
Thm is one remedy lor alL' 



190 



* O dull, one-sided Toioe,' said I, 

' Wilt thou make everything a fis^ 
To flatter me that I may die ? 

' I know that age to age 8noeeed% 
Blowing a noise of tongues and deed% 
A dust of systems and of ereeds. 

< I cannot hide that some have striwop 
Achieving calm, to whom wasjnven 

The joy Uiat mixes man with Heaven; eio 

< Who, rowing hard against the stream^ 
Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. 
And did not dream it was a dream; 

' But heard, by secret transport led. 
Even in the chamels of the dead, . 
The murmur of the fountain-head— 

' Which did accomplish their desire^ 
Bore and f orebore, and did not tirs^ 
Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 

' He heeded not reviling tones, «o 

Nor sold his heart to iole moans, 
Tbo' cursed and soom'd, and bruised with 
stones; 

' But looking upward, f uU of graee^ 
He nray'd, and from a happy place 
God s glory smote him on the fsoe.* 

The suUen answer slid betwixt: 

' Not that the grounds of hope were fixfd. 

The elements were kindlier mix*d.' 

I said: ' I toil beneath the curse, 

Bnt, knowing not the universe, t^i 

1 fear to slide from bad to worse; 

' And that, in seeking to undo 
One riddle, and to find the true, 
I knit a hundred others new; 

' Or that this anguish fleeting henee^ 
Unmanaded from bonds of sense. 
Be fix*d and frozen to permanence: 

* For I go, weak from suffering here; 
Naked I go, and void of cheer: 

What is it that I mav not fear ?* an 

' Consider well,' the voice replied, 

' His face, that two hours since hath die^ 

Wilt thou find passion, pain or pnde f 



THE TWO VOICES 



33 




oowiinmd* ? 
■bonld one prait his hioids? 

BOta DOT Bi»^^*ttf>**liff 



an folded on bii breatt; 
is BO other thiag ezprese'd 
Bat loaf diequiei noiged in rest. 

'Hk^eaiOTeTj mild and meek; sso 

Tho^ one should smite him on the eheek. 
And om the moath, he will not speak. 

' His little daoghter, whose sweet fsoa 
Ho kias*d, taking his last emhraoOy 
dishonor to her race — 



' His SOBS grow vp that bear his name, 
8oHM grow to hoBor, some to shame, — 
B«t he is chill to praise or blame. 



*Ho will not hear the north-wind raTO, 
Kor, m oa ning , household shelter craTo 
From wiBter rains that beat his graTO. 



afo 



*Higli vp the Tapors fold and swim; 
AboBt him broods the twilight dim; 
IVe place he knew foigetteth him.' 

'If aD be dark, vagne Totee,' I said, 

things are wrapt in doubt and dread, 



Hor canst thou show the dead are dead. 

*Tk sap dries up: the plant declines. 
A deeper tale my heart dirines. 

I not death ? the outward signs ? rjo 



*I fsmd him when mj jears were few; 
A shadow on the grares I knew, 
Aad da*^^**^ in Uie Tillage yew. 

'FVom graTO to graTe the shadow crept; 
In her &I1 plaoe the momiug wept; 
ToBch*d bj his feet the daisj slept. 

*Tbe stmple senses erown'd his head: 
•Omega I thou art Lord,** theysaid, 
•• We ind BO motioo in the dead I ** 

*WhT, if iBan rot in dreamless ease, 980 
flwold that plain fsct, as tanght by these. 
Hot nrnkn him snre that he shall oease ? 



* Who forged that other inflnenee, 

Thai heat of iaward eTidenee, 

Bjr whieh he doubts against the sense 7 



' He owns the fatal nf t of eyes. 
That read his spirit blindly wise. 
Not simple as a thing that 



* Here sits he shaping wings to fly; 

His heart forebodes a mystery; 999 

He names the name Eternity. 

' That type of Perfect in his mind 
In Nature can he nowhere find. 
He sows himself on oTory wind. 

' He seems to hear a Heayenly Friend, 
And thro' thick Teils to apprehend 
A labor working to an end. 

' The end and the beginning tcx 

His reason: many thmgs perplex, 

With motions, checks, ana countereheoki. 

' He knows a baseness in his blood lot 

At such strange war with something good. 
He may not do the thing he would. 

' HeaTen opens inward, chasms yawn, 
Vast images in glimmering dawn. 
Half shown, are broken ai^ 



' Ah ! snre within him and without, 
Could his dark wisdom find it out. 
There must be answer to his doubt, 

' But thou canst answer not sgain. j« 

With thine own weapon art thou slain. 
Or thou wilt answer out in Tain. 

* The doubt would rest, I dare not sdT*. 
In the same circle we reToWe. 
Assurance only breeds resolye.' 

As when a billow, blown against. 

Falls back, the Toice with which I fenoed 

A little ceased, but recommenced: 

' Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
In his free field, and pastime made, s*s 
A merry boy in sun and shade ? 

' A merry boy they eall'd him then, 
He sat upon the knees of men 
In days that neyer come again; 

' Before the little ducts began 

To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 

Thcdr course, till thou wert also man: 



34 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



* Who took a wife, wbo remr'd his race, 
Whose wrinkles gathered on his face, 
Whose troubles number with his days; 330 

* A life of nothings, nothing worth. 
From that first nothing ere his birth 
To that last nothing under earth I ' 

'These words,' I said, 'are like the rest; 
No certain clearness, but at best 
A. Tague suspicion of the breast: 

'But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
The thesis which thy words intend — 
That to begin implies to end; 

' Yet how should I for certain hold, 940 
Because my memoiy is so cold, 
That I first was in human mould ? 

* I cannot make this matter plain. 
But I would shoot, howe'er m Tain, 
A random arrow from the brain. 

' It may be that no life is found, 
Which only to one engine bound 
Falls off, but cycles iJways round* 

* As old mythologies relate. 

Some draught of Lethe might await 350 
The slipping thro' from state to state; 

* As here we find in trances, men 
Forget the dream that happens then. 
Until they fall iu trance agaiu ; 

*So might we, if our state were sucb 

As one before, remember much, 

For those two likes might meet and touch. 



* But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
Some legend of a fallen race 
Alone might bint of my disgrace; 



360 



' Some vague emotion of delight 

In gazing up an Alpine height. 

Some yearning to^i^ird the lamps of night; 

'Or if thro* lower lives I came — 
Tho' all experience past became 
Consolidate in mind and frame — 

' I might forget my weaker lot; 
For is not our first year forgot ? 
The haonts of memory echo not. 



' And men, whose reason long was Uind, 
From cells of madness nnooraned. 
Oft lose whole years of darker mind. 

* Much more, if first I floated fiM^ 
As naked essence, must I be 
Incompetent of memory; 

' For memory dealing but with timfl^ 
And he with matter, could she olimb 
Beyond her own material prime ? 

' Moreover, something is or seems. 
That touches me with mystic gleams, j 
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — > 

' Of something felt, like something here; 
Of something done, I know not where; 
Such as no language may declare.' 



The still voice Uuigh'd. • I talk,' said be, 

* Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
Thy pain is a reality.' 

< But thou,' said I, ' hast missed thy mari^ 
Who songht^st to wreck my mortal ark. 
By making all the horizon dark. 399 

' Why not set forth, if I should do 
This rashness, that which might ensue 
With this old soul in organs new ? 

* Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 

No life that breathes with human breath 
Has ever truly long'd for death. 

' 'T is life, whereof our nerves are scanti 
O, life, not death, for which we pant; 
More life, and fuller, that I want' 



I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
' Behold, it is the Sabbath mom.' 

And I arose, and I released 

The casement, and the light increased 

With freshness in the dawning east. 

Like sof ten'd airs that blowing steal. 
When meres begin to uncong^, 
The sweet church bells began to peaL 



On to God's house the people prest; 
Passing the place where each must zest, 
Each enter'd like a welcome guest. 411 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



35 



One wilk'd between his wife and child, 
With meMored footfall firm and mild, 
And now and then he gravely smiled. 

rbe prodent partner of hu blood 
Lean d oo him, faithful, gentle, good, 
Weacmg the rose of womanhood. 

And in their double lore secure, 
The little maiden walk'd demure, 
facing with downward eyelids pure. 420 

Theee three made unity so sweet. 
My frozen heart began to beat, 
Bemembcring its aneient heat. 

. blest them, and they wander'd on; 
I snoke, but answer came there none; 
Xlie dnll and bitter voice was gone. 

/. aeeond voice was at mine ear, 

A. little whisper silver-clear, 

A nmnnur, * Be of better cheer.' 

As from some blissful neighborhood, 430 

A n>}tice faintly understood, 

' I see the end, and know the good.' 

A little hint to solace woe, 

A hint, a whisper breathing low, 

* I may not speak of what I know.' 

Like an iEolian harp that wakes 

No certain air, but overtakes 

Far thought with music that it makes; 

Soeh seem'd the whisper at my side: 

* What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? ' 

I cried. 440 

*A hidden hope,' the voice replied; 

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour 
From out my sullen heart a power 
Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 

To feel, altho' no tongue can prove. 
That every cloud, that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love. 

And forth into the fields I went. 
And Nature's living motion lent 
The pnlee of hope to disccmtent. 450 



I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
The slow result of winter showers; 
You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 

I wonderM, while I paced along; 

The woods were fill*d so full with song. 

There seem'd no room for sense of wrong; 

And all so variously wrought, 

I marvell'd how the mind was brought 

To anchor by one gloomy thought ; 

And wherefore rather I made choice 46c 
To commune with that barren voice. 
Than him that said, * Rejoice I Rejoice 1 * 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 

First printed in 1833, bat much changed in 
1842. See Notes. 

I SEE the wealthy miller yet. 

His double chin, bis portly size. 
And who that knew him could forget 

The busy wrinkles round bis eyes ? 
The slow wise smile that, round about 

His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
Seem'd haff-witbin and half-without. 

And full of dealings with the world ? 

Li yonder chair I see him sit, 9 

Three fingers round the old silver cup — 
I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 

At his own jest — gray eyes lit up 
With summer lightnings of a soul 

So full of summer warmth, so glad. 
So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 

His riemory scarce can make me sad. 

Yet fill my glass; give me one kiss: 

My own sweet Alice, we must die. 
There 's somewhat in this world amiss 

Shall be unriddled by and by. so 

There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 

But more u taken quite away. 
Fray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, 

lliat we may die Uie self-same day. 

Have I not found a happy earth ? 

I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
Would God renew me from my birth, 

I 'd almost live my life again; 



3« 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



80 sweet it seems with thee to walk. 
And oDoe again to woo thee mine — 90 

It seems in after-dinner talk 

AiuoBS the walnuts and the wine — 

To be the long and listless boj 

Late>Ieft an orphan of the squire* 
Where this old mansion mounted high 

Looks down upon the village spire; 
For eren here, where I and you 

Have liTod and loTod alone so long, 
Kaoh mom my sleep was broken thro' 

By some wild skylark's matin song. 40 

And oft I heard the tender dore 
In firry woodlands making moan; 

But ere I saw your eyes, my Ioto, 
I had no motion of my own. 

For searoe my life with fancy play'd 

* Before I dreamM that pleasant dream — 

Still hither thither idly S¥ray'd 
like those long mosses in the stream. 

Or from the briJge I lean'd to hear 

The milldam rushing down with noise, so 
And see the minnows every where 

In erystal eddies glance and poise. 
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 

Below the range of stepping-stones, 
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 

In masses thick with milky oones. 

But, Alice, what an hour was that, 

Wheu after roring in the woods 
(T was April then), I eame and sat 

Below the chestnuts, when their bods 60 
Were glistening to the breesy blue; 

And on the alope, an absent fool, 
I east me down, nor thought of you. 

But angled in the higher pooL 

A lore-song I had somewhere read. 

An echo from a measured strain. 
Beat time to nothing in my head 

From some odd corner of the brain. 
It haunted me, tlie morning long. 

With weary sameness in the rhymes, 70 
The phantom of a silent song, 

Tlttit went and eame a thoosand times. 

Then leapt a trout. In larr mood 
I watched the little drelei die; 

Tlwy past into the level flood, 
AjMi there a liskiD can|^ my eye; 



The reflex of a beauteous form, 
A blowing arm, a gleaming neek^ 

As when a sunbeam wavers wann 
Within the dark and dimpled bedk. m 

For you remember, you had set, 

That morning, on the rasement edgfi 
A Ions; green box of mignonette. 

And you were leaning from the ledge; 
And when I raised my eyes, above 

They met with two so full and b rigl i i ■■ 
Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 

That these have never lost their ligkft. 

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 

That I should die an early death; e* 
For love possess'd the atmosphere. 

And fill'd the breast with purer bteath. 
My mother thought, What aals the boy ? 

For I was alter'd, and began 
To move about the house with joj. 

And with the oertain step of naan. 



I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Thro' quiet meadows round the mill. 
The sleepy pool above the dam. 

The pool beneath it never stQl, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor. 

The dark round of the dripping i^ee^ 
The very air about the door 

Made misty with the floating meaL 



And oft in ramblings on the wold. 

When April ni^ts began to blow. 
And April's crescent glimmered cold, 

I saw the village lights below; 
I knew your taper far away. 

And full at heart of trembling hope, i» 
From off the wold I came, and uy 

Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mffl; 

And « by that lamp,' I thoo^t, ' she sits ! ' 
The white chalk-quarry from the hill 

Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
' O, that I were bende her now ! 

O, will she answer if I call? 
O, would she give me vow for vow. 

Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? ' no 



Sometimes I saw yoo nt and spin; 

And, in the pauses of the wind. 
Sometimes I heard you sing within; 

Sometimes your shadow croas*d the 
hlind. 



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 



37 



At Ink 700 rose and moTed the li^ht, 
And tiie Umf shadow of the chiur 

Flitted lerois uto the night, 
And all the casement darkened there. 

Bat wliea ti last I dared to speak, 

Ibe lanes, 70a know, were white with 
Day; 130 

Tov lips hps mored not, bat your cheek 

flulid liae the coming of the day; 
And ao it was — half-sly, half-shy. 

Too would, and would not, litde one I 
AUhoQgli I pleaded tenderly. 

And Toa and I were all luone. 

And dowlr was my mother brought 

ToTield consent to my desire: 
She wiih'd me happy, but she thought 

1 might have look'd a little higher; 140 
And I waa young — too young to wed: 

'Yet muat I love her for your sake; 
Go fetch your Alice here,' she said: 

Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 

And down I went to fetch my bride: 

Bat, Alice, you were ill at ease; 
This dieaa and that by turns you tried. 

Too fetrful that yon should not please. 
I loved you better for your fears, 

I knew you could not look but well ; 150 
And dewB, that would have fallen in tears, 

I kin*d away before they fell. 

I witek'd the little flutterings. 

The doubt my mother would not see; 
She spoke at large of many things. 

And at the last she spoke of me; 
And taming look'd upon your face. 

As near Uiis door you sat apart, 
And rose, and, with a silent grace 159 

Approaching, preas'd you heart to heart. 

Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 

I gave you, Alice, on the day 
When, arm in arm, we went along, 

A pensive pair, and you were gay 
With bridal flowers •— that I may seem, 

Aa in the niehts of old, to lie 
Beside the miu-wheel in the stream. 

While those full chestnuts whisper by. 



It ia the miller's daughter, 
And she is grown so dear, 

That I would be the Jewel 
That trembles in her ear; 



For hid in ringlets day and night, 

I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 

And I would be the girdle 

About her dainty dainty waist, 

And her heart woidd beat against me, 
In sorrow and in rest ; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I 'd clasp it round so dose and tight. 18^ 

And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom, 

W ith her laughter or her sighs ; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

A trifle, sweet I which true love spells — > 

True love interprets — right alone. 
His light upon the letter dwells, 

For all the spirit is his own. 190 

So, if I waste words now, in truth 

You must blame Love. His early rage 
Had force to make me rhyme in youth. 

And makes me talk too much in age. 



And now those vivid hours are gone. 

Like mine own life to me thou art. 
Where Past and Present, wound in one, 

Do make a garland for the heart; 
So sing that other song I made, 

Hall-anger'd with my happy lot. 
The day, when in the chestnut shade 

I found the blue forget-me-not. 



aoo 



aio 



so dear, 170 



Love that hath us in the net. 
Can he pass, and we f oiget ? 
Many suns arise and set; 
Many a chance the years beget; 
Love the gitt is Love the debt. 

Even so. 
Love is hurt with jar and fret ; 
Love is made a vague regret ; 
Eyes with idle tears are wet ; 
Idle habit links us yet 
What is love ? for we forget: 

Ah, no I no I 



Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True 
wife. 

Round my true heart thine arms entwine; 
My other dearer life in life, 

Iiook thro' my very soul with thine I 
Untouch'd with any shade of years. 

May those kind eyes for ever dwell I 
They have not shed a many tears, 

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 



sao 



38 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



Yet tears they shed; they had their part 

Of sorrow; for when time was ripe, 
The still affection of the heart 

Became an outward breathing type, 
Tliat into stillness past again, 

And left a want unknown before; 
Although the loss had brought us pain, 

That loss but made us love the more, 330 

With farther looldngs on. The kiss, 

The woven arms, seem but to be 
Weak symbols of the settled bliss, 

The comfort, I have found in thee; 
But that God bless thee, dear — who 
wrought 

Two spirits to one equal mind — 
With blessings beyond hope or thought. 

With blessings which no words can find. 

Arise, and let us wander forth 

To yon old mill across the wolds; 340 
For look, the sunset, south and north. 

Winds all the vale in rosv folds. 
And fires your narrow casement glass. 

Touching the suHeu pool below; 
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 

Is dry and dewless. Let us go. 

FATIMA 

Reprinted in 1842 from the volame of 183^), 
when*, instead of the present title, it has for 
iieadiDg the following quotation : 

^currrac fiot k'^pok utoc BtoUrtv 

O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might I 

sun, that from thy noonday height 
Shuddercst when I strain my sight. 
Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parch d and withered, deaf and blind, 

I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

Last night I wasted hateful hours 
Below the city's eastern towers; 

1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers; 
I roU'd among the tender flowers; 

I crush*d them on my breast, my mouth; 
I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
Of that long desert to the south. 

Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
From my swift blood that went and came 
A thousand little shafts of flame 
Were shiver'd in mv narrow frame. 



O Love, O fire I oooe he dnw 

With one long kiss my whole aoal tbM^ 

My lips, as sonlight drinkath dew. 

Before he mounts the hill, I know 
He Cometh quickly; from below 
Sweet gales, as from deep gardona, blow 
Before him, striking on my brow. 
In my dry brain my spirit aooOy 
Down-deepening from swoon to 
Faints like a dazzled morning 



The wind sounds like a silver wirep 
And from beyond the noon a fire 
Is pour*d upon the hills, and nigher 
The skies stoop down in their desire; 
And, isled in sudden seas of light» 
My heart, pierced thro' with flmt d** 

Bursts into blossom in his sight. 

My whole soul waiting silently, 

All naked in a sultry sky. 

Droops blinded with his shining eye; 

I will possess him or will die. 

I will grow round him in his place. 
Grow, live, die looking on his faoOy 
Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace. 

GENONE 

Tint printed in 1833, but materially aHaied 
in 1842. See Notes. 

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the 

glen, 
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to 

pine. 
And loiters, slowly drawn. On eithei 

hand 
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway 

down 
Hang rich in flowers, and far below then 

roars 
The long brook falling thro' the olovea 

ravine 
In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
Behind the valley topmost Gargams n 

Stands up and takes the morning; but in 

front 
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
Troas and Ilion's colnmn'd citadel. 
The crown of Troas. 



CENONE 



39 



Hither oftme at noon 
MBBiiftd (Eoone, wandering forlorn 
Of hm, ooee lier playmate on the bills. 
Btr cheek bad lost the rose, and ronnd her 

neek 
Rotted ber bair or seem'd to float in rest. 
S^ leaning on a fragment twined with 

fine, 
itag to the rtallnftMi till the monntain- 

ebade so 

Soped downward to her seat from the 

nppereliff. 

'0 mother Ida, many-fonntain'd Ida, 
Star mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
For BOW the noonday quiet holds the bill; 
The Rissbopper is silent in the grass; 
Theloard, with his shadow on the stone, 
ficiti like a shadow, and the winds are 

dead. 
The imrple flower droops, the golden bee 
Is%-eradled; I alone awake 
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 

loTe, 30 

My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. 
Aid I am all aweary of my life 

*0 mother Ida, many-fonntain'd Ida, 
Beer mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hills, O caves 
That boose the eold crown'd snake I O 

mountain brooks, 
Jem the daughter of a River-God, 
Hear me, for 1 will speak, and build up all 
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls 
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 
A ekmd that gatber'd shape; for it may be 
That, while Fspeak of it, a little while 
My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 

'0 mother Ida, roany-fountain'd Ida, 
Bear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
I waited underneath the dawning bills; 
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark. 
And dewy dark aloft the mountain pine. 
Beaatifnl Paris, cTil-bearted Paris, 
r4iadfng a jet-black goat white -hom'd, 
wbite-hooved, 50 

Came np from reedy Simou all alone. 

'O mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Far-off the torrent eall'd me from the cleft; 
Far np the solitary morning smote 
The streaks of Tirgin snow With down- 
dropt eyes 



I sat alone; white-breasted like a star 
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard 

skin 
Droop'd from bis shonlder, but his sunny 

bair 
Clustered about his temples like a God's; 
And his cheek brighten d as the foam-bow 

brightens 60 

When the wind blows the foam, and all my 

heart 
Went forth to embrace him coming ere h6 

came. 

' Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
He smiled, and opening out bis milk-white 

palm 
Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold. 
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
And listened, the full -flowing river of 

speech 
Came down upon my heart: 

• « My own (Enone, 
Beautiful-brow'd (Enone, my own soul. 
Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 

ingraven 70 

* For the most fair,' would seem to award 

it thine. 
As lovelier than whatever Oread hannt 
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace 
Of movement, and the charm of marrieU 

brows." 

' Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
He prest the blossom of his lips to mine. 
And added, "This was cast upon the 

board, 
When all the full-faced presence of the 

Gods 
Ranged in the balls of Peleus; whereupon 
Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were 

due; 80 

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve. 
Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
Elected umpire, Her^ comes to-day, 
Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 

cave 
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'* 

* Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
It was the deep midnoon; one silvery 
cloud 90 

Had lost his way between the piny sides 



40 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



Of this long glen. Then to the bower thej 

came, 
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded 

bower, 
And at their feet the crocas brake like fire, 
Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
Lotos and lilies; and a wmd arose. 
And overhead the wandering ivy and vine. 
This way and that, in many a wild fes- 
toon 
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled bonghs 
With bunch and berry ai^ flower thro' and 
thro*. 



too 



' O mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
And o'er him flow'd a golden oloud, and 

lean'd 
Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
Then first I heard the voice of her to 

whom 
Coming thro' heaven, like a light that 

g^ws 
Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
Rise np for reverence. She to Paris made 
Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
Unqnestion'd, overflowing revenue no 

Wherewith to embellish state, " from many 

a vale 
And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with 

corn, 
Or labor'd mine undrainable of ore. 
Honor," she said, *< and homage, tax and 

toll. 
From many an inland town and haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing cita- 
del 
In glassy bays among her tallest towers. ** 

' O mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Still she spake on and still she spake of 

power, 
** Which in all action is the end of all; im> 
Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred 
And throned of wisdom— from all neigh- 
bor crowns 
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon 

from me. 
From me, heaven's queen, Paris, to thee 

king-bom, 
A shepherd all thy life but yet king-bom. 
Should come most welcome, seeing men, in 
power 



Only, are likest Gods, who haTe attua'd 
Rest in a happy plaoe and miiat aeati 
Above the thunder, with niidyin|f blia qit 
In knowledge of their own mtpmBaB/Bj," 

' Dear mother Ida, barken ere I dia. 
She ceased, and Pkris held the eortlj ffdl 
Ont at arm's-length, so mueh the tlioe^ 

of power 
Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pkllaa when iki 

stood 
Somewhat apart, her clear and bared fiialit 
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning coUt 
The while, above, her full and earnest ^ya 
Over her snow-oold breast and mngiy 

cheek 140 

Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply : 

"* Self-reverenoe, self-knowledge, aelf- 

control. 
These three alone lead life to aoveieigB 

power. 
Yet not for power (power of herself 
Would come uncall d for) but to live faj 

law. 
Acting the law we live by without fear; 
And, because right is ri^t, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the soom of oonseqneDoe.* 



' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I dk 
Again she said: *' I woo thee not with 

g^ftS. ijo 

Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
So shalt thou find me fairest. 

Yet, indeadf 
If gazing on divinity disrobed 
Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
Unbias'd by self-profit, O, rest thee sure 
That I shall love thee well and eleave to 

thee. 
So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood. 
Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 

God's, 159 

To push thee forward thro* a life of shoeks. 
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
Sinew'd with action, and the fall-grown 

will, 
Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
Commeasure perfect freedom." 

* Here she oeas*d. 
And Pkris ponder'd, and I eried, '* O Parisi 
Give it to Pallas 1 " but he heaid me not. 
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is ma I 



(ENONE 



41 



*0 mMtuP Ida, mmny-foiiiitain^d Ida, 
htu adhT Ida, barken ere I die. 
Mm Aphrodite beautifiily 170 

hmk at tae foam, iiew4MUied in Paphian 

Wilk foej ileader fingers backward drew 
Ami ber warm browt and bosom her deep 



■enal, folden round ber lucid throat 
isd sboolder; from the yiolets her light 

foot 
AoM roej-wbitey and o'er ber ronnded 

fiMm 
B i i wee u the shadows of the vine-bunches 
^ flatted tlia glowing sunlights, as she 



'Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Sbe TTitb a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 180 
The herald of ber triumph, drawing nigh 
Half-wbiaper'd in his ear, '* I promise Uiee 
IW Purest and most loving wife in 



She spoke and laugh'd; I shut my sight for 

fear; 
fiol when I look'd, Paris had raised his 



Aad I beheld great Herd's angry eyes. 
As sIm withdrew into the golden cloud. 
And I was left alone within the bower; 
Aad from that time to this I am alone, 
Amd I shall be alone until I die. 



190 



* Yet, mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
Fairest — why ^rest wife ? am I not fair 7 
My loire bath told me so a thousand times. 
Mctbiaks I must be fair, for yesterday, 
Wbaa I past by, a wild and wanton pard, 
Eyad like the evening star, with playful 

taU 
Cnmdi'd fiiwaing in the weed. Most lov- 
ing is she ? 
All flse, my mountain shepherd, that my 



wound about thee, and my hot lips 

prest 
Cloi% doM to tluM in that quiok-falling 

dew MO 

Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn rains 
Flash in the pools of whirling Simois I 

* O mother, bear me yet before I die. 
IWy eame, they eut away my tallest pines, 
Ify tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy 
ladga 



High over the blue gorge, and all between 
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark 

morn 
The panther's roar came muffled, while I 
sat sio 

Low in the valley. Never, never more 
Shall lone G£noue see the morning mist 
Sweep thro' them; never see them over- 
laid 
With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud. 
Between the loud stream and the trembling 
stars. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
Among the fragments tumbled from the 

glens. 
Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 
The Abominable, that uninvited came aao 
Into the fair Pelel'an banquet-hall, 
And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 
And bred this change; that I might speak 

my mind. 
And tell her to her face how much I bate 
Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
Hath he not sworn bis love a thousand 

times. 
In this green valley, under this green hill, 
Even on this hand, and sitting on this 

stone? 
Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with 

tears ? ajo 

O happy tears, and how unlike to these I 
O happy heaven, how canst thou see my 

face? 
O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 

weight ? 

death, death, death, thou ever-floating 

cloud, 
There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
Pass by the happy souls, that love to live; 

1 pray thee, pass before mv light of life, 
And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
Thou weighest heavy on the heart within. 
Weigh heavy on my eyelids; let me die. a^o 

' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
I will not die alone, for fiery thoaghts 
Do shape themselves within me, more and 

more, 
Whereof I catch the issue, as I bear 



HE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



i at night oome from the in- 

iiUs, 

» upon wool. I dimly see 

oubtful pui*pose, as a mother 

[>f the features of her child 

>ni. Her child! — a shadder 

lever child be bom of me, aso 
''ex me with his father's eyes I 

% hear roe yet before I die. 
earth. I will not die alone, 
brill happy laughter come to 

e cold and starless road of 

ly leaving my ancient love 
eek woman. I will rise and go 
Proy, and ere the stars come 

te wild Cassandra, for she says 
s before her, and a sound a6o 
n her ears of armed men. 
lay be I know not, but I know 
soe'er I am by night and day, 
d air seem only burning Are.' 



THE SISTERS 

in 1842 from the 1838 yolnme, 
[fe except * and * for * an" in * tur- 



daughters of one race; 
fairest in the face. 

is blowing in turret and tree, 
ogether, and she fell; 
ivenge became me welL 

1 was fair to see I 

le went to burning flame; 
iv ancient blood with shame, 
is howling in turret and tree. 
[8 and months, and early and 

3ve I lay in wait. 
1 was fair to see I 

Lst; I bade him oome; 

re, I brought him home. 

is roaring in turret and tree. 

pper, on a bed, 

> he laid his head. 

1 was fair to see I 



I kissM his eyelids into rest, 
His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 

The wind is raging in turret and treK 
I hated him with the hate of hell, 
But I loved his beauty passing welL 

O, the earl was fair to see I 

I rose up in the silent night; 

I made my dagger sharp and bright. 

The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
As half-asleep his breath he drew. 
Three times 1 stabb'd him thro' and thro*. 

O, the earl was fair to see I 

I curPd and comb'd his comely head. 
He look'd so g^nd when he was dead. 

The wind is blowing in turret and ttea. 
I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
And laid him at his mother's feet. 

O, the earl was fair to see I 



TO 

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEIff 

'The Palace of Art' was printed, with this 
introduction, in 1833, but was much altered in 
1842 and somewhat in more recent editions- 
See Notes. 

I SEND you here a sort of allegory — 
For you will understand it — of a soul, 
A sinful soul possess'd of many gi^^ 
A spacious garden full of flowenne weeda, 
A glorious devil, large in heart and brain. 
That did love beauty only — beauty seen 
In all varieties of mould and mind — 
And knowledge for its beauty; or if good. 
Good only for its beauty, seeing not 
That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge are 

three sisters 
That doat upon each other, friends to man. 
Living together under the same roof. 
And never can be sunder'd without tears. 
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall 

be 
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold 

lie 
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this 
Was common clay ta'en from the common 

earth 
Moulded by God, and temper'd with the 

tears 
Of angels to the perfect shape of maiL 



THE PALACE OF ART 



43 



THE PALACE OF ART 

1 BUILT my soul a loxdlj pleasore-hoiifle, 

Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
I laid, ' O Soul, make merry and caroase, 
Bear aonl, for all is welL' 

A Imge erag-platform, smooth as bnmish'd 
brass, 
I ehose. The ranged ramparts bright 
Yratn lerel meadow-bases of deep grass 
Soddenly scaled the light. 

Tlierecm I bailt it firm. Of ledge or shelf 

The rock rose clear, or winding stair. lo 
My soul would lire alone onto herself 
In her high palace there. 

And * while the world rans round and 
round/ I said, 

* Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 

Still as, while Saturn whirls, his steadfast 
shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring.' 

To which my soul made answer readily: 

* Tmst me, in bliss I shall abide 

In this great mansion, that u bnilt for 
me. 
So royal-rich and wide.' ao 

Foot eourts I made. East, West and South 
and North, 
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom 
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
A flood of f ountain-KMun. 

And roand the cool green courts there ran 
a row 
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, 
Eeboing all night to that sonorous flow 
CNTsponted fountain-floods; 

And found the roofs a gilded gallery 

That lent broad yerge to distant lands, 30 
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the 
sky 
Dipt down to sea and sands. 

From those fonr jets four currents in one 
swell 
Across the mountain stream'd below 
In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
ap a torrent-bow. 



And high on every peak a statue seem'd 

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 

From out a golden cup. 40 

So that she thought, * And who shall gaze 
upon 
My palace with unblinded eyes, 
While this great bow will waver in the 
sun. 
And that sweet incense rise ? ' 

For that sweet incense rose and neTer 
faird, 
And, while day sank or mounted higher^ 
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd. 
Burnt like a fringe of fire. , 

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and 
traced, 
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires so 
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced. 
And tipt with frost-like spires. 

Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 

That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 

IMiSS, 

Well-pleased, from room to room. 

Full of great rooms and small the palace 
stood, 
All various, each a perfect whole 
From living Nature, fit for every mood 
And change of my still soul. 60 

For some were hung with arras green and 
blue, 
Showing a gaudy summer-mom, 
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter 
blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn. 

One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of 
sand. 
And some one pacing there alone. 
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, 
Lit with a low large moon. 

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. 

Yon seem'd to hear them clunb and 

fall 

And roar rock-thwarted nnder bellowing 

caves, jt 

Beneath the windy walL 



44 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEICS 



And one, a full-fed ziTer winding iliiw 

By herds npon an endless plain, 
ne nfged runs of thunder brooding low, 
mUi shadow-streaks of rain. 

And one, the rei^pers at their sultry toil. 
In front they bound the sheaves. Be- 
hind 
Were realms of npland, prodigal in cnl. 
And hoary to the wind. 80 

And one a foregroond black with stones 
and slags; 
Beyond, a Ime of heights; and higher 
All barr'd with long white cloud the seom- 
ful erags; 
And higl^t, snow and fire. 

And one, an English home — gray twilight 
pour'd 
On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
Softer than sleep — all things in order 
stored, 
A haunt of ancient Peace. 

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, 

As fit for every mood of mind, 90 

Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stem, was 
there. 
Not less than truth design'd. 



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, 

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, 
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx 
Sat smiling, babe in arm. 

Or in a dear-wall'd city on the sea. 
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair 
Wound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily; 
An angel look'd at her. 



100 



Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 

A group of Houris boVd to see 
^le dying Islamite, with hands and eyes 
That said. We wait for thee. 

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
In some fair space of sloping greens 
Lay, dozing in the vale of AvaJon, 
And watch'd by weeping queens. 

Or hollowing one band against his ear. 
To list a foot-fali, ere he saw 



The wood-nymph, stay'd the 
to hrar 
Of wisdom and of law. 



Or over hills with peaky tops engiail'd^ 

And many a tract of palm and lioe. 
The throne of Indian Cama slowly aail'd 
A summer fann'd with spioe. 

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew nniSbmp*d^ 
From off her shoulder backward bone; 
From one hand droop'd a crocus; one 
grasp'd 
The mild bull's golden horn. 

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thi^ 

Half-buried in the eagle's down. 
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the skj 
Above the pillar'd town. 



no 



Nor these alone; bnt every le|;end fur 
Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
Carved out of Nature for itself was there» 
Not less than life design'd. 



Then in the towers I placed great beOt 

that swung. 

Moved of themselves, with silver sonnd; 

And with choice paintings of wise men I 

hung 131 

The royal dais round. 

For there was Milton like a seraph strong. 
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; 
And there the world-worn Dante gra^'d 
his song, 
And somewhat grimly smiled. 

And there the Ionian father of the rest; 

A million wrinkles carved his skin; 
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breasi» 
From cheek and throat and chin. 140 

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 

Many an arch high up did lift, 
And angels rising and aescending met 
With interchange of gift 

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 

With cycles of the human taJe 
Of this wide world, the times of every 
land 
So wrought they will not faiL 



THE PALACE OF ART 



45 



I psopl* hu9f a beast of bofden slow, 
Tou'd oawmidt phek'd with goads and 
•tiaj B i ; 150 

iplaT^ a tifer, rolling to and fro 
Tm Miida and erowns of kings; 

raw, aa athlete, strong to break or 
biad 
AQ fotee ia bonds that might endure, 
Aad here ooee more like some siok man 
declined, 
Aad trosted any onre. 

Bat OT«r theee she trod; and those great 
bells 
Began to chime. She took her throne; 
Sbe sat betwixt the shining oriels. 

To sing her songs alone. 160 

Aad thro* the topmost oriels' eolwed flame 

Two godlike faces gazed below; 
Plato the wise, and large-brow*d Verulam, 
The first of those who know. 

And all those names that in their motion 
were 
FdQ-welling foontain-heads of change, 
Bcfwizt the slender shafts were blaxon'd ^r 
In diTerse raiment strange; 

IWo* which the lights, roee, amber, em- 
erald, blue, 
F1osh*d in her temples and her eyes, 170 
Aad from her lips, as mom from Memnon, 
drew 
Bnrers of melodies. 

Ho nightingale delighteth to prolong 

Her low preamble all alone. 
More than my sool to hear her eeho*d 
song 
Throb thro* the ribbed stone; 

StegbV ud m^rmuriag in h«r feMtful 
ourth, 
Jojing to feel herself aliTO, 
Losd orer Nature, lord of the Tisible earth, 
Lord of the senses Ato; 180 

Cee amun ing with herself: 'All these are 
mine. 
And let the world haTO peace or 
Tie one to me.' She — wben 7 
diTiae 
Ciown'd d jing daj with stars, 



Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 

Lit bght in wreaths and anadems, 
And pure ouintesseoces of precious oils 
In hollow'd moons of gems, 

To mimic heayen; and clapt her hands and 
cried, 
' I manrel if my still delight 190 

In this great house so rojal-rich and wide 
Be flatter'd to the height 

* O all things fair to sate my Tarious eyes 1 

shapes and hues that please me well I 
O silent faces of the Great and Wise, 

My Gods, with whom I dwell 1 

* O Godlike isolation which art mine, 

1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
What time I watch the darkening droYOf. 

of swine 
That range on yonder plain. 



young night 



* In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient 

skm, 
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; 
And oft some brainless deyil enters in. 
And driyes them to the deep.' 

Then of the moral instinct would she prate 

And of the rising from the dead. 
As hers by rieht of f ull-accomplish'd Fate; 
And at the last she said: 

* I take possession of nuui's mind aad deed. 

I care not what the sects may brawL a 10 
I sit as God holding no form of creed. 
But contemplating alL' 



Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 

Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, 
Tet not the less held she her solemn mirth. 
And intellectual throne. 

And so sbe throye and prosper'd; so three 
years 
She prosper'd; on the fourth she fell. 
Like Herod, when the shout was in his 
ears. 
Struck thro' with pangs of hell. aso 

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, 

God, before whom eyer lie bare 
The abysmal deeps of personality, 
Plagued her with sore despair. 



46 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



When she wonld think, where'er she tom'd 
her sight 
The airy hand confusion wrought. 
Wrote, ' Mene, mene,* aud divided quite 
The kingdom of her thought. 

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 

Fell on her, from which mood was bom 
Scorn of herself; again, from out that 
mood 331 

Laughter at her self-scorn. 

' What I is not this my place of strength,' 
she said, 
' Mj spacious mansion built for me. 
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were 
laid 
Since my first memory ? ' 

But in dark comers of her palace stood 

Uncertain shapes; and unawares 
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of 
blood, 
And horrible nightmares, 240 

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
flame, 
And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
On corpses three-months-old at noon she 
came. 
That stood against the wall. 

A spot of dull stagnation, without light 

Or power of moyeuient, seem'd my soul, 
Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
Making for one sure goal; 

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
sand, 
Left on the shore, that hears all night 250 
The plunging seas draw backward from 
the land 
Their moon-led waters white; 

A star that with the choral starry dance 

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw 
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
Roll'd round by one fiz'd law. 

Back on herself her serpent pride had 
curl'd. 
* No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone hall, 
* No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this 
world; 
One deep, deep silence all I * 



She, mouldering with the doll eartM 
mouldering sod, 
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame. 
Lay there exiled from eternal Ood, 
Lost to her place and name; 

And death and life she hated equally. 

And nothing saw, for her despair. 
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity. 
No comfort anywhere; 



Remaining utterly confused with fean^ 

And ever worse with growing time> 
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears. 
And all alone in crime. 



Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt Toimd 

With blackness as a solid wall. 
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound 
Of human footsteps fall: 

As in strange lands a traveller walking 
slow. 
In doubt and great perplexity, 
A little before moonrise hears the low 

Moan of an unknown sea; iBr 

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound 

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep ory 
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, *I 
have found 
A new land, but I die.' 

She howl'd aloud, * I am on fire withm. 

There comes no murmur of reply. 
What is it that will take away my sin. 
And save me lest I die ? ' 

So when four years were wholly finished. 
She threw her royal robes away. ago 

* Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, 

« Where I may mourn and pray. 

* Tet pull not down my palace towers, that 

are 
So lightly, beautifully built; 
Perchance J may return with others there 
When I have purged my guilt.' 

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 
First printed in 1842, but written in 1833. 

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
Of me you shall not win renown: 



THE MAY QUEEN 



47 



IkflHigki to Vreak a eoontrj heart 
ff paatiiiMy ere 70a went to town. 
m jott nniledt bat onbe j^uiled 
Mw the snare, and I retired; 
daaglrter of a hundred earl% 
Mare not one to be deeired. 

f Clara Vers da Vera, 
know yoQ proud to b^ yonr name, 
r pride it jet no mate for mine, 
10 proad to care from whence I came. 
wmld I break for yoor sweet sake 
heart that dotes on truer charms. 
Dple maiden in her flower 
worth a hundred ooats-of-arms. 

f Clara Vere de Vere, 
me meeker pupil you must find* 
ware you queen of all that is, 
soald not stoop to such a mind, 
sought to prove how I oould loTe, 
id my disdain is my reply, 
lioo 00 your old stone gates 
not more cold to you than L 

r Clara Vere de Vere, 
m put strange memories in my head, 
thriee your branching limes have 

blown 
■ee I beheld young Liaarenee dead. 
MU sweet eyes, your low replies I 
great enehantress you may be; 
there was that across his throat 
hieh you had hardly oared to see. 

r Clara Vere de Vere, 
hen thus he met his mother's Tiew, 
bad the passions of her kind, 
« spake some oertain truths of you. 
ed I heard one bitter word 
lai searee is fit for you to hear; 
ouuiners had not that repose 
luch stamps the caste of Vere de 
Vera. 

r Clara Vere de Vera, 

lere stands a spectre in yoor hall; 

guilt of Uood IS at yonr door; 

Ml changed a wholesome heart to 

SmlL 
held yoor oourse without remorse, 
I make him trust his modest worth, 
, last, you flx'd a Taeant stare, 
id aUw him with jour noble 



Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 

From yon blue heayens above ns bent 
The gardener Adam and his wife 

Smile at the claims of long descent. 
Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 

T is only noble to be good. 
Kind hearts are more than coronets. 

And simple ^th than Norman blood. 

I know yon, Clara Vere de Vere, 

You pine among your halls and towers; 
The languid light of your proud eyes 

Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
In elowing health, with boundless wealthj 

But sickenine of a vague disease, 
You know so ill to deal with time, 

You needs must play such pranks as 
these. 

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 

If time be heavy on your hands. 
Are there no beggars at your gate. 

Nor any poor about your lands ? 
O, teach the orphan-boy to read, 

Or teach the orphan-giri to sew; 
Fray Heaven for a human heart. 

And let the foolish yeoman ga 

THE MAY QUEEN 

Printed hi 1888, with the exception of the 
' Conclusion,* which wss added in 1842. 

You must wake and call nie early, eall me 
early, mother dear; 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all 
the riad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the mad- 
dest merriest day, 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There *s many a black, black eye, they sav, 

but none so brieht as mine; 
There 's Margaret and Mary, there 's Kate 

and Caroline; 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the 

land they say. 
So I 'm to be Queen o* the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I 

shall never wake, 
If yon do not oall me loud ithuk tha day 

bagini to break; m 



48 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



But I most gather knots of flowen, and 

buds and garlands gay, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' ute May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the IdCaj. 

As I came up the Talley whom think ye 

should I see 
But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath 

the hazel-tree ? 
He thought of that sharp look, mother, I 

gave him yesterday, 
But I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o* the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I 

was all in white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a 

flash of light 
They call me oruel-hearted, but I care not 

what they say. 
For I 'm to be Queen o' the Minr, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. w 

They say he 's dying all for love, but that 

can never be; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother — 

what is that to me ? 
There 's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any 

suouner day, 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to 

the green. 
And you 'll be there, too, mother, to see 

me made the Queen; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come 

from far away. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the M^, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has 

woven its wavy bowers. 
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint 

sweet cuckoo-flowers; 30 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like 

fire in swamps and hollows gray. 
And I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the IdCay. 

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon 

the meadow-grass. 
And the happy stars above them seem to 

brighten as they pass; 



There will not be a drop of lain tht wMs 

of the livelong day. 
And I ^ to be Queen o' the May, mothw, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the Miay. 

All the valley, mother, "ill be fresh aid. 

green and still. 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot wan Qfvar 

aUtheluU, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 111 ms^ 

rily glanee and play, 
For I 'm to be Queen o' tiie Mar, mothv, 

I 'm to be Queen o' the May. 4^ 

So you must wake and call me eaiiy, esQ 
me early, mother dear. 

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all 
the glad New-year; 

To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the mad- 
dest merriest day. 

For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mothae^ 
I 'm to be Queen o' the luj. 

NEW-YEAR'S EVE 

If yon "re waking call me eaiiy, eall mi 

early, mother dear. 
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad 

New-year. 
It is the last New-year that I shall ever 



Then you may lay me low i' the mould and 
think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set; he set and left 

behind 
The good old year, the dear old timfi, and 

all my peace of mind; 
And the New-year's coming up, mother, 

but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf 

upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers; we 

had a merry day; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green thej 

made me Queen of May; m 

And we danced about the may-pole and in 

the hazel copse. 
Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall 

white chimney-tops. 

There 's not a flower on all the hills; tht 
frost is on the pane. 



THE MAY QUEEN 



49 



lolf mh to lire till the mowdioiw ooma 

■pta; 
Ink die wmom would melt and tlie son 

oone out on higb; 
Ilnf tDiee a flower eo before the day I die. 

Hi Vdklui^ rook 11 eaw from the windy 

hi tlw swallow *ill eome back again with 

mmmer o*er the wave, 
Bit I ihall lie alone, mother, within the 

Bouldering grave. so 

UpM the chaDcel-casement, and npon that 

gnre of mine, 
Ii tW carl J early morning the summer sun 

lllshiney 
Bdon the red cock crows from the farm 

1900 the hill, 
WkM yon are' warm-asleep, mother, and 

an the worid it stilL 

Wka the flowers come again, mother, be- 
neath the waning light 

Toe H acTer see me more in the long gray 
fields at night; 

from the dry dark wold the summer 
airs blow eool 
0» the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and 
the bolrosh in the pooL 

Tea H bnry me, my mother, just beneath 

the hawthorn shade, 
Aad yoQ 11 come sometimes and see me 

where I am lowly laid. so 

I shall not forget yoo, mother, I shall hear 

yon when too pass, 
Witk your feet abore my head in the long 

aod pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 
forgiTC me now; 

ToB H kiss me, my own mother, and for- 
give me ere I go; 

Vmj, nay, yon most not weep, nor let yonr 
grief be wild; 

Ten sboald not fret for me, mother, yon 
have another child. 

If I eaa 1 11 come again, mother, from out 

1' yon H not see me, mother, I shall look 
mpon yonr face; 



Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall barken 

what you say. 
And be often, often with yon when yon 

think I 'm far away. 40 

Good-night, good-night, when I have said 

good-night for evermore, 
And you see me carried out from the 

threshold of the door, 
Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave 

be growing g^reen. 
She 11 be a better child to yoo than ever I 

have been. 

She 11 find my garden-tools npon the gran- 
ary floor. 

Let her take 'em, they are hers; I shall 
never garden more; 

But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the 
rosebush that I set 

Abont the parior-window and the box of 
mignonette. 



nig 
th< 



e day is bom. 



Good-night, sweet mother; call me before 

An night I ue awake, but I faU asleep at 
mom; 90 

But I would see the sun rise upon the glad 
New-year, 

So, if you 're waking, call me, caU me 
early, mother dear. 



CONCLUSION 

I TnouOHT to pass away before, and yet 
alive I am ; 

And in the fields aU round I hear the bleat- 
ing of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning 
of the year I 

To die before the snowdrop came, and now 
the violet 's here. 

O, sweet is the new violet, that comes be- 
neath the skies. 

And sweeter is the yonng lamb's voice to 
me that cannot riAe, 

And sweet is all the land about, and aU the 
flowers that blow. 

And sweeter far is death tlian life to me 
that long to go. 

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave 
the blewed sun. 



5d 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



And now it seems as hard to stay, and jet 
His will be done ! to 

Bat still I think it can't be long before I 
find release; 

And that good man, the clergyman, has 
told me words of peace. 

O, blessings on his kindly voice and on his 

silver hair I 
And blessings on his whole life long, ontil 

he meet me there ! 
O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his 

silver head ! 
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt 

beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd 

me all the sin. 
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's 

One will let me in; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if 

that could be. 
For my desire is but to pass to Him that 

died for me. jo 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the 

death-watch beat, 
There came a sweeter token when the night 

and morning meet; 
But sit beside my bed, mother, and put 

your hand in mine. 
And Effie on the other side, and I will tell 

the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I heard the 

angels call; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the 

dark was over all; 
The trees began to whisper, and the wind 

began to roll, 
And in the wild March-morning I heard 

them call my souL 

For lying broad awake I thought of you 

and Effie dear; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no 

longer here; 30 

With all my strength I pray'd for both, 

and so I felt resign'd, 
And up the valley came a swell of music 

on the wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened 
mmy bedy 



And then did something speak to me ^ I 

know not what was said; 
For great delight and shnddering took iiold 

of aU my mind. 
And up the vaUey came again the mnsie am 

the wind. 

But you were sleeping; and I said, ' It ^ 

not for them, it s mine.' 
And if it come three times, I thoagiity I 

take it for a sign. 
And once again it came, and elose bfkiB 

the window-bars. 
Then seem'd to go right up to heafen and 

die among the stars. 4a 

So now I think my time is near. I trust it 

is. 1 know 
The blessed music went that way my sool 

will have to eo. 
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go 

to-day; 
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I 

am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word^and tell him 

not to fret; 
There's many a worthier than I, woold 

make him happy yet. 
If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might 

have been his wife; 
But all these things have ceased to be, with 

my desire of life. 



O, look I the sun begins to rise, the heavi 

are in a glow; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of 

them I know. 90 

And there I move no longer now, and there 

his light may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands 

than mine. 

O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that 

ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may be 

beyond the sun — 
For ever and for ever with those just souls 

and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan? 

why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed 
home — 



CHORIC SONG 



S» 



to wmit a little while till you 

and fUBecome-— 
T« In withiB tbe light of God, u I lie upon 

joor breast ->* 
lad tM wieked eeaie from troubling, and 

the wtturj are at rest te 



THE LOTOS-EATERS 



riated hi 1833, but oonsidermbW al- 



*CoCBAQB ! ' he said, and pointed toward 
theUnd, 

*1W moonting wave will roll us shore- 
ward soon.' 

Is tkt afternoon they came unto a land 

Is wUch it seemed always afternoon. 

All nmnd the coast the languid air did 
swoon, 

fimtluBg like one that hath a weary 



FiD-&eed above the Talley stood the 



Aai, like a downward smoke, the slender 

stream 
kkmg thj eliir to fall and pause and fall 
seem. 



A Umd of streams ! some, like a downward 

smoke, 
Sbw-dropping veib of thinnest lawn, did 

Aad eooie thro' wavering lights and 
shadows broke. 

^**J*«1f a slnmbroos sheet of foam below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 

Fpooi the inner land; far off, three moun- 
tain-tops, 

nree silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stawl B«nset-flush*d; and, dew'd with 
abowciy drops, 

Cp tloaib the shsAOWj pine above the 



The charmed sunset lingered low adown 
Ib the red West; thro' mountain clefts the 

dale 
Was aeea far inland, and the yellow down 
BoHer'd with palm, and many a winding 

vale 
Aad meadow, set with slender galingale; 
▲ iMd where all things always setm'd the 
I 



And round about the keel with faces pale. 
Dark faces pale agaiust that rosy flame, 
The mild -eyed melancholy Lotos -eaters 
came. 

Branches thev bore of that enchanted stem. 
Laden with dower and fruit, whereof they 

gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake. 
His voice was thiu, as voices from the 

grave; 
And deep-asleep he seem*d, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did 

make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand. 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but ever- 
more 
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar. 
Weary the wandering fields of barren 

foam. 
Then some one said, * We will return no 

more;' 
And all at once they sang, *Our island 

home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer 
roam.' 



CHORIC SONG 



Thkrk is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grans. 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from 

the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
And in the stream the loug-leaved flowers 

weep, lo 

And from the eraggy ledge the poppy 

hangs in sleep. 



II 



Whv are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress. 



S3 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



While all things else have rest from weari- 
ness? 

All things have lest: whj should we toil 
alone, 

We onlj toil, who are the first of things, 

And msJce perpetual moan. 

Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 

Nor ever fold our wings. 

And cease from wanderings, ae , 

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
balm; 

Nor barken what the inner spirit sings, 

*There is no joy but calm ! ' — 

Whj should we only toil, the roof and 
crown of things? 

Ill 

Lo I in the middle of the wood. 

The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 

With winds upon the branch, and there 

Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 

Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 30 

Falls, and floats adown the air. 

Lo I sweeten'd with the summer light, 

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow. 

Drops in a silent autumn night. 

All its allol^ted length of days 

The flower ripens in its place. 

Ripens and ndes, and falls, and hath no 

toil. 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soiL 

IV 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky. 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 40 

Death is the end of life; ah, why 
Should life all labor be ? 
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 
And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 
All things are taken from us, and become 
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. 
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 
To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? y> 
All things have rest, and ripen toward the 

grave 
In silence — ripen, fall, and cease : 
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or 

dreamful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the downward 
stream^ 




With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
Falling asleep in a half-dream 1 
To dream and dream, like yonder 

light. 
Which will not leave the myrrli4mih m^ 

the height; 
To hear each other's whisper'd ^eedi; 
Eating the Lotos day hj day, in 

To watch the crisping npples on tim 
And tender curving fines of ereamv ij 
To lend our hearts and spirits whouy 
To the influence of mild-minded 

choly; 
To muse and brood and five again in 

ory. 
With those old faces of our in&nqr 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in 1 

of brassi 

VI 

Dear is the memory of onr wedded lively 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 
And their warm tears; but all hath8iiffei^di> 

change; yc 

For surely now onr household hearths wtm- 

cold. 
Our sons inherit us, our looks are strange, 
And we should come like ghosts to tronUb 

jov. 
Or else the island princes over-bold 
Have eat our substance, and the minstnf 

sings 
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, 
And our g^reat deeds, as half - f orgottei 

things. 
Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
Let what is broken so remain. to 

The Gods are hard to reconcile; 
'T is hard to settle order once again. 
There is confusion worse than death. 
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
Long labor unto aged breath. 
Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars 
And eyes g^rown dim with gazing on the 

pilot-stars. 

vn 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and molyt 
How sweet — while warm airs lull us, blow* 

ing lowly — 
With half-dropt eyelid still, 9» 

Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river dmwini^ 

slowly 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



53 



fii iwtwi from the jparple hill — 
Te hnr ti» dewy echoes oallinfl^ 
f^Nieave to eave thro' the &ok-twined 



lb vildi the emermld-oolor'd water falling 
TM mmmj a woren acanthui-wreath di- 

TIBtl 

Q^f li hear and aee the faiHxff sparkliog 



^felf to hear were sweet, ttretoh'd oat he- 
■eath the pine. 99 

VIII 

TW Lotos hlooms below the barren peak, 
lit Lolos blows by every winding creek; 
All dsr the wind breathes low with mel- 
lower tone; 
1W tfenr hoUow cave and alley lone 
Inad sad roand the spicy downs the yel- 
low Lotoa-dost is blown. 
W9 ksfe had enough of action, and of 



itffi to starboard, roU'd to larboard, when 

the surge was seething free, 
fkn the wiulowing monster sponted lus 

foam-fonntains in the sea. 
Lit es swear an oath, and keep it with an 

equal mind, 
h the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie re- 
clined 
(k the hills like Gods together, careless of 



110 



For they lie beside their nectar, and the 

bolts are harl'd 
Far below them in the Talleys, and the 

clouds are lightly cnrrd 
R—a H their golden houses, girdled with 

the gleaming world; 
Where they smile in secret, looking over 



Biifht and famine, plague and earthquake, 

roaring deepe and fiery sands, 
Cliaginy fights, and flaming towns, and 

smking ships, and praying hands. 
Bat they smue, they find a music centred 

IB a doleful song 
SCaaning op, a lamentation and an ancient 

tale of wrong, 
like a tale of little meaning tho' the 

words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that 

deare the soil, iw 

the seed, and t9Kp the harreat with 

•odariag 



Storing jrearly little dues of wheat, and 

wme and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer — some, 't is 

whisper'd — down in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian 

yalleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 

asphodel. 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than 

toil, the shore 
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and 

wave and oar; 
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 

wander more. 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 

First printed hi 18S3, considerably altered in 
1842, and again retouched in 1845, 1853. and 
(in one passage) in 1884. See Notes. 

I READ, before my eyelids dropt their 
shade, 
' The Legend of Good WomenJ long ago 
Sung by the morning star of song, who 
made 
His music heard below; 

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
sweet breath 
Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
With sounds that echo still. 

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art 
Held me aboye the subject, as strong 
galea 10 

Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' my 
heart. 
Brimful of those wild tales. 

Charged both mine eyes with tears. Ic 
CTcry land 
I saw, whereTcr light illumineth. 
Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand 
llie downward slope to death. 

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song 
Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 
stars. 
And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and 
wrong. 
And trumpets blown for wars; w 



S4 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



And elattering flints l»tter'd with olang:ing 
hoo£s; 
And I saw crowds in column'd smncta- 
aries, 
And forms that pass'd at windows and on 
roofo 
Of marble palaces; 

Corpses across the threshold, heroes tall 

IHslodging pinnacle and parapet 
Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall, 
Lances in ambush set; 

And high shrine- doors burst thro' with 
heated blasts 
That ran before the fluttering tongues of 
fire; 30 

\¥hite surf wind-scatter*d over sails and 
masts, 
And ever climbing higher; 

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
plates, 
Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
woes. 
Ranges of glimmering vanlts with iron 
grates, 
And hush'd seraglios. 

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to 

Bluster the winds and tides the selfsame 
way. 
Crisp foam-flakes send along the level sand, 
Tom from the fringe of spray. 40 

I started once, or seem'd to start in pain, 
Resolved on noble things, and strove to 
speak, 
As when a great thought strikes along the 
brain 
And flushes all the cheek. 

And once my arm was lifted to hew down 

A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
That bore a lady from a leagner'd town; 
And then, I know not how. 

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd onward, lost their edges, and 
did creep 50 

RoU'd on each other, rounded, smoothed, 
and brought 
Into the gmfs of sleep. 



waadflv^ hm 



J 



At last methonght that I had 
In an old wMd; fresh- wash'd in 
dew 
The maiden splendors of the vHxnuBg 
Shook in the irteadfast Uae. 



Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and 

Upon the dusky brushwood unaenMttIk 
Their broad curved branches, fledged with 
clearest green. 
New from its silken sheath. tm 

The dim red Mom had died, her y 
done. 

And with dead lips smiled at the iwiligliA 
plain, 
Half-fsJlen across the threshold of tlie 
Never to rise again. 



There was no motion in the dumb dead 
Not any song of bird or sound of rill; 
Gross darkness of the inner sepolohre 
Is not so deadly still 



As that wide forest. Growths of i 
tum'd 
Their humid arms festooning 
tree. 
And at the root thro' lush green 
bum'd 
The red anemone. 



I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I 
knew 
The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn 
On those long, rank, dark wood -walks 
drench'd in dew, 
Leading from lawn to lawn. 

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
Pour'd back into my empty sool and 
frame 
The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful and free from blame. 8# 

And from within me a clear undertone 
Thriird thro' mine ears in that nnblisa 
ful clime, 
'Fkss freely thro'; the wood is all thine 
own 
Until the end of time.' 

At lengrth I saw a lady within call. 
Stiller than ohisell'd marble, standiBf 
then; 



to 

70 



A ^REAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



55 



of the gods, dirinelj tall, 
diTiiielj fair. 



shame and with sur- 



■IT swift speech; she turning on 
■IT nee 90 

star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, 
Spoke slowlj in her place: 



*I kod great heanty; ask thon not my 



Ko one can be more wise than destiny. 
Ifaoj drew swords and died. Where'er 
I came 
I btoaght calamity.' 

* No marrel, sovereign lady: in fair field 

Myself for such a face had boldly died/ 
1 aoswer'd free; and turning I appeal*d 
To ooe that stood beside. 100 

Bet she, with sick and scornful looks averso, 
To her foil height her stately stature 
draws; 
' Mj youth,' she said, ' was blasted with 



This woman was the canse. 



'I was cot off from hope in that sad place 
Wkieh men caird Aulis in those iron 
Tears: 
My father held his hand upon his face; 
I, blinded with my tears, 

*Sdn strore to speak: my voice was thick 
with sighs 109 

As ia a dream. Dimly I ccMild descry 
Tke stem black-bearded kings with wolf- 
ish eyes. 
Waiting to see me die. 

* ne high masts flickered as they lay afloat ; 
The crowds, the temples, waver'd, and 
the shcire; 
The bright deaUi qniver'd at the victim's 
throat ~ 
Tooeh'd — and I knew no more.' 

Whereto the other with a downward brow: 

' I wonld the white cold heavy-plunging 

foam, 

Whiri*d by the wind, had roll'd me deep 

below, 

TiMa when I left my home.' im 



Her slow full words sank thro' the silence 
drear, 
As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: 
Sudden I heard a voice that cried, * Come 
here, 
That I may look on thee.' 

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise. 

One sitting on a crimson scarf uuroird: 
A queen, with swartliy cheeks and bold 
black eyes, 
Brow-bound with burning gold. 

She, flA8liing forth a haughty smile, began: 

*I governed men by change, and so I 

sway'd ,30 

All moods. Tis long since I have seen 

a man. 

Once, like the moon, I made 

The ever^shifting currents of the blood 
According to my humor ebb and flow. 
! I have no men to govern in this wood: 
That makes my only woe. 

• Nay — yet it chafes me that I could not 

bend 
One will; nor tame and tutor with mine 
eye 
That dull cold-blooded Cesar. Prythec, 
friend, 
Where is Mark Antony ? 140 

' The man, my lover, with whom I rode sul>- 
lime 
On Fortune's neck; we sat as God by 
God: 
The Nilus would bave risen before his time 
And flooded at our nod. 

* We drank the Lib van Sun to sleep, and 

lit 
Lamps which out-bum*d Canopus. O, 
my life 
In ^J^pt ! O, the dalliance and the wit. 
The flattery and the strife, 

' And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's 
alarms, 
My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 150 
My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms. 
Contented there to die i 

'And there he died: and when I heard my 



S6 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT. AND OTHER POEMS 



Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook 
my fear 
Of the other; with a worm I balk*d his 
fame. 
What else was left ? look here ! ' — 

With that she tore her robe apart, and 

half 

The polish' d argent of her breast to sight 

Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 

langh, 

Showing the aspiok's bite. — i6o 

'I died a Qaeen. The Roman soldier 
fonnd 
Me lying dead, my crown about my 
brows, 
A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
crown'd. 
Worthy a Roman spouse.' 

Her warbUng voice, a lyre of widest range 
Struck by all passion, did fall down and 
glance 
From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
change 
Of liyeliest utterance. 

When she made pause I knew not for de- 
light; 
Because with sudden motion from the 
ground 170 

She raised her piercing orbs, and iill'd with 
light 
The interval of sound. 

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest 
darts; 
As once they drew into two burning rings 
All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
hearts 
Of captains and of kings. 

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
A noise of some one coming thro' the 
lawn, 
And singiufi^ clearer than the crested bird 
That claps his wings at dawn: 180 

* The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
soon, 
Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
dell. 
Far-heard beneath the moon. 



* The balmy moon of blessed Isntl 
Floods all the deep-blue gloom 
beams divine; 
All night the splinter'd erags that 
the dell 
With spires of silver shine.' 



As one that mnseth where broad ■nnohina 
laves 
The lawn by some cathedral, thro' tlis 
door 190 

Hearing the holy org^ rolling waves 
Of sound on roof and floor 

Within, and anthem sung, is charmed and 
tied 
To where he stands, — so stood I, whoc 
' that flow 
Of music left the lips of her that died 
To save her father's vow; 

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 

A maiden pure; as when she went aloi^ 
From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcooM 
lirfit. 
With timbrel and with song. aoo 

My words leapt forth: * Heaven heads the 
count of crimes 
With that wild oath.' She rendered 
answer high: 
' Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times 
I would be born and die. 

* Single I g^w, like some green plant, 

whose root 
Creeps to the garden watei^pipes be- 
neath, 
Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to 
fruit 
Changed, I was ripe for death. 

* My Grod, my land, my father — these did 

move 
Me from my bliss of life that Nature 

five, a to 

softly with a threefold cord of love 
Down to a silent grave. 

* And I went monmingi " No fair Hebrew 

boy 
Shall smile away my midden blame 
among 
The Hebrew mothers " — emptied of all joy. 
Leaving the dance and song, 



A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 



57 



_ the oliT»-g«rdeii8 Hx below, 
hmsnmg the Dfomiie of my bridal bower, 
lalleye in grape -loaded vines that 



the battled tower. 



aao 



*TkB ligbt white elood swam over as. 



We beard the lion roaring from his den; 
VTe aiw the large white stars rise one by 



Or, from the darkened glen, 
*8aw God divide the night with flying 



And thunder on the everlastinr hills. 
I heard Him, fur He spake,. and grief be- 



A soleaui soom of ills. 
* Whaa the next moon was roll'd into the 

•ky. 

Stmctb e«D« to me Uud equ»U'd my 
desire. »y> 

Bow beaatif nl a thing it was to die 
For God and for my sire I 



*U eoasforts me in this one thought to 
dwell, 
I subdued me to my father's will; 
the kiss he ^ye nie, ere I fell, 
t^weetens the spirit still. 

*lIeffeoyer it is written that my race 
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from 
Aroer 
Ob ArooQ unto Minneth.' Here her faee 
Glow*d, as I look'd at her. 240 

She loek*d her lips; she left me where I 
stood: 
'Glory to God,' she sane, and past afar, 
IWdding the sombre boskage ot the wood, 
Toward the momingustar. 

Laung her earol I stood pensively, 
As one that from a easement leans his 
head. 
When midnight bells eease ringing sud- 
denly. 
And the old year is dead. 

"Aks f alas I ' a low voice, full of care, 

iBr*d beside me: 'Tom and look 

tsa 



I am that Rosamond, whom men eall fair, 
If what I was I be. 

* Would I had been some maiden coarse 
and poor I 
O me, that I should ever see the light I 
Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
Do hunt me, day and night.' 

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
trust; 
To whom the Egyptian: *0, you tamely 
died ! 
You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
and thrust 
The dagger thro' her side.' s6o 

With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
creeping beams. 
Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mys- 
tery 
Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams 
Ruled in the eastern sky. 

Mom broaden'd on the borders of the dark 
Ere I saw her who clasp'd in her last 
trance 
Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 
Arc, 
A light of ancient France; 

Or her who knew that Love ean vanquish 
Death, 
Who kneeling, with one arm about her 
king, sTo 

Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
breath, 
Sweet as new buds in spring. 

No memory labors longer from the deep 
Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden 
ore 
That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
sleep 
To gather and tell o'er 

Each little sound and sight With what 

dull pain 

Conipass'd, how eagerly I sought to 

strike 

Into that wondrous track of dreams again ! 

But no two dreams are like. s8o 

As when a soul laments, whieh hath beeu 
blest, 



S8 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



Desiring what is mingled with past 
years. 
In yeamings that can never be exprest 
By signs or groans or tears; 

Beoanse all words, tho' cnll'd with choicest 
art, 
Failing to giro the bitter of the sweet, 
Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
Faints, faded by its heat. 



THE BLACKBIRD 
Fiist pnbliahed in 1S42, hot written in 1883. 

O BLACKBIRD I Sing me something well: 
While all the neighbors shoot thee round, 
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, 

Where thou mayst warble, eat, and dwell. 

The espaliers and the standards all 

Are thine; the range of lawn and park; 
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Tet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, 
lliy sole delight is, sitting still. 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill ! the silTcr tongne. 

Cold February loved, is dry; 

Plenty corrupts the melody 
That made thee famous once when young; 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 

Now thy flute - notes are changed to 

coarse, 
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 

Take warning I he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue. 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new. 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 



THE DEATH OF THE OLD 
YEAR 

Reprinted in 1842 from the volume of 1833. 

Fuix knee-deep lies the winter snow. 
And the winter winds are wearily sighing; 



Toll ye the chnrcb-bell sad and akyw. 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies ardying. 
Old year, you must not die; 
Ton came to us so readily. 
Ton lived with us so steadily. 
Old year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still, he doth not move; 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true tme-loTS^ 

And the New-year will take *em away. 

Old year, you must not go; 

So long as yon have been with ns. 

Such joy as you have seen with us» 

Old year, you shall not go. 

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim. 
And tho' his foes speak ill of biniy 
He was a friend to me. 

Old year, yon shall not die; 

We did so laugh and cry with yoo, 

I 've half a mind to die with you. 

Old year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest. 
But all his merry quips are o'er. 
To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he 11 be dead before. 

Every one for his own. 

The nieht is starry and cold, m^ 
friend. 

And the New-year blithe and bold 
my friend. 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes I over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro; 
The cricket chirps; the light bums low; 
'T is nearly twelve o'clock. 

Shake hands, before you die. 

Old year, we 11 dearly rue for .too. 

What is it we can do for you ? 

Speak out before you die. 

His face is g^wing sharp and thin. 
Alack I our friend is gone. 
Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 



TO J. S. 



S9 



Aid wtiteth at tbe door. 

Tins*! a BOW foot on the floor, my 

friiad, 
iid A DOW {mo at tbe door, my friend, 
Amv &oe at the door. 



TO J. S. 
Ptepriafted ia 18S3, and ilightly altered in 

Tn wind that beats the mountain blows 
lion softly roond the open wold, 

And mtJy oomes the world to those 
lost are east in gentle mould. 

Aid Be this knowledge bolder made. 
Or else I had not dared to flow 

Is these words toward you, and invade 
Efea with a Terse your holy woe. 

Tii strange that those we lean on most, 
Those in whose laps our limbs are 
nursed, 

Fsll into shadow, soonest lost; 

Those we lore first are taken first 

God gires us lore. Something to lore 
Be lends us; but, when love is grown 

To rip eues a , that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 

This is the eorse of time. Alas ! 

In grief I am not all unleam'd; 
Oaee thro' mine own doors Death did pass; 

One went who never hath retum'd. 

Be will not smile ~ not speak to me 

Onee more. Two years hb chair is 



EaipiT before ns. That was he 

^V'itboot whose life I had not been. 



loss is rarer; for thb star 
Rose with you thro' a little are 
Of heaven, nor having wander'd far 
Shot on the sud£n into dark. 



I 
A 



I 



your brother; his mute dust 
I honor and his living worth; 

more pore and bold and just 
Was never bom into the earth. 

_ not look*d upon vou nigh 
8iaee that dear soul hath fallen asleep. 



Great Nature is more wise than I; 
I will not tell you not to weep. 



And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew. 

Drawn from the spirit thro* the brain, 

I will not even preach to you, 

'Weep, weeping dulls the inward 
pain.' 

Let Grief be her own mistress stilL 
She loveth her own anguish deep 

More than much pleasure. Let her will 
Be done — to weep or not to weep. 

I will not say, 'God*8 ordinance 

Of death is blown in every wind;' 

For that is not a common chance 
That takes away a noble mind. 

His memory long will live alone 

In all our hearts, as mournful light 

That broods above the fallen sun. 

And dwells in heaven half the night. 

Vain solace I Memory standing near 

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat 

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear 
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. 

I wrote I know not what. In truth. 
How Bhould I soothe you any way. 

Who miss the brother of your youth ? 
Yet something I did wish to say; 

For he too was a friend to me. 

Both are my friends, and my true 
breast 
Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be 

That only silence suiteth best. 

Words weaker thanyour grief would make 
Grief more. 'T were better I should 



Although myself could almost take 

TIm place of him that sleeps in peace. 

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace; 

Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul. 
While the stars bum, the moons increase. 

And the great ages onward rolL 

Sleep till the end, tme soul and sweet. 

frothing comes to thee new or strange. 
Sleep full of rest from head to feet; 

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. 



6o 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



ON A MOURNER 
Fink printed in the 'SelMtuns ' of 186& 



Natuhk, so far as in her lies, 
Imitates God» and turns her face 

To eTery land beneath the skies. 
Counts nothine that she meets with base, 
Bot lires and ToTes in every plaoe; 

n 

Fills oat the homely qnickset-screens, 
And makes the purple lilac ripe, 

Steps from her airy hill, and greens 
The swamp, where humm'd the drop- 
ping snipe. 
With mo88 and braided marish-pipe; 

in 

And on thy heart a finger lays. 
Saying, ' Beat quicker, for the time 

Is pleasant, and the woods and ways 
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime 
Pot forth and feel a gladder dime.' 

IV 

And mnrmnrs of a deeper voice, 
Going before to some far shrine, 

Teach Siat sick heart the stronger choice, 
mi all thy life one way incline 
With one wide Will that closes thine. 



And when the zoning eve has died 
Where yon dark yalleys wind forlorn. 

Come Hope and Memory, spouse and bride. 
From out the borders of the mom. 
With that fair child betwixt them bom. 

VI 

And when no mortal motion jars 

The blackness roimd the tombing sod, 

Thro' silence and the trembling stars 
Comes Faith from tracts no feet hare 

trod. 
And Virtoe, like a household god 

VII 

Promising empire; such as those 
Once heard at dead of night to greet 

Troy's wandering prince, so that he rose 
With sacrifice, while sill the fleet 
Had rest by stony hills of Crete. 



This and the two following pottna, 
in 1833, weie first printed in 1S42, aad ftm» 
been altered but slii^Uy. See NoIm. 

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ea 
Within this region I subsist. 
Whose spirits falter in the mist, 

And languish for the purple seas.. 

It is the land that freemen till. 
That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
The land, where girt with friends or foat 

A man may speak the thing he will; 

A land of settled government, 
A land of just and old renown. 
Where Freedom slowly broadens down 

From precedent to precedent; 

Where faction seldom gathers head, 
But, by degrees to fullness wrought. 
The strength of some diffusive thoofffat 

Hath time and space to work and sproig 

Should banded unions persecute 
Opinion, and induce a time 
When single thought is civil erime. 

And individual freedom mute, 

Tho' power should make from land **> 
land 
The name of Britain trebly great — 
Tho' every channel of the State 

Should fill and choke with golden sand ^• 

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
Wild wind I I seek a warmer sky^ 
And I will see before I die 

The palms and temples of the South. 



Or old sat Freedom on the heights, 
The thunders breaking at her feet; 

Above her shook the starry lights; 
She heard the torrents meet. 

There in her place she did rejoioe, 
Self-gatherd in her prophet-mind. 

But fragments of her mighty voice 
Came rolling on the wind. 

Then stept she down thro* town and field 
To minfi^le with the human race. 

And part by part to men reveal'd 
The fullness of her face — 



"LOVE THOU tHV LAND" 



6i 



Gfive motiier of majesiio works, 
ftom ker isle-altar gazing down, 

Wlw^ Godlike, grasps the triple forks, 
iiid, king-like, wears the crown. 

Her open eyes desire the truth. 

Hie wisdom of a thousand jears 
Ii in them. May perpetual youth 

Ke^ diy their light from tears; 

Thti her fsir form may stand and shine, 
Mske bright our days and light our 
dreams, 

Tniiin£ to scorn with lips divine 
The nlsebood of extremesi 



Love thoa thy land, with love far-brought 
From out the storied past, and used 
Within the present, but transfused 

Huo' future tune by power of thought; 

True lore tnm'd round on fixed poles, 
Love, that endures not sordid ends. 
For English natures, freemen, friends, 

Tliy brothers and immortal souls. 



But pamper not a hasty time, 
Kor fc«d with crude imaginings 
Tbid herd, wild hearts and feeble wings 

Hiat every sophister can lime. 



lO 



BeUrer not the tasks of might 
To weakness, neither hide the ray 
F^ those, not blind, who wait for 

Tho* sittbg girt with doubtful light. 

Mske knowledge circle with the winds; 

Bat let her herald, Reverence, fly 

Before her to whatever sky 
Bear seed of men and growth of minds, ao 

VTateh what main-currents draw the years; 

Cat Prejodice against the grain. 

Bot gentle words are always gain; 
Begard the weakness of thy peers. 

Hot toQ for title, place, or touch 
Of pension, neither count on praise — 
It ROWS to guerdon after-days. 

Nor deal in watch-words overmuch; 

Hot clinging to some ancient saw, 
Not mastf^r'd by some modem term, 30 



Not swift nor slow to change, but firm; 
And in its season bring the law. 

That from Discussion's lip may fall 
With Life that, working strongly, binds — 
Set in all lights by manv minds, 

To close the interests of all. 

For Nature also, cold and warm. 
And moist and dry, devising long. 
Thro' many agents making strong, 

Matures the individual form. 40 

Meet is it changes should control 
Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
We all are changed by still degrees, 

All but the basis of the soul. 

So let the change which comes be free 
To ing^roove itself with that which files, 
And work, a ioint of state, that plies 

Its office, moved with sympathy. 

A saying hard to shape in act; 

For all the past of Time reveals §d 

A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 

Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 

Even now we hear with inward strife 
A motion toiling in the gloom — 
The Spirit of the years to come 

Teaming to mix himself with Life. 

A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
Completion in a painful school; 
Phantoms of other forms of rule. 

New Majesties of mighty States — 60 

The warders of the growing hour. 
But vague in vapor, hard to mark; 
And round them sea and air are dark 

With great contrivances of Power. 

Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
Is bodied forth the second whole. 
Reg^ard nadation, lest the soul 

Of Discord race the rising wind; 

A wind to puff your idol-fires. 

And heap their ashes on the head; 70 
To shame the boast so often made. 

That we are wiser than our sires. 

O, yet, if Nature's evil star 

Drive men in manhood, as in youth. 



63 



THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS 



To follow flying stem of Troth 
Across the bruen briage of war — 

If New and Old, disastrous fead« 
Must ever shock, like armed foes, 
And this be true, till Time shall close, 

That Frinciples are raiu'd in blood; So 

Not yet the wise of heart wonld cease 
To hold his hope thro* shame and guilt, 
But with his hand against the hilt, 

Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; 

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay. 

Would serve his kind in deed and word. 
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 

That knowledge takes the sword away ^ 

Would love the gleams of good that broke 
From either side, nor veil his eyes; 90 
And if some dreadful need should rise 

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke. 

To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
As we bear blossom of the dead; 
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 

Baw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 

ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 

1782 

First publiahed in the 1874 edition of the 
' Poems. See Notes. 

O THOU that sendest out the man 

To rule by land and sea. 
Strong mother of a Lion-line, 
Be proud of those strong sons of thine 

Who wrenched tneir rights from thee I 

What wonder if in noble heat 

Those men thine arms withstood, 
Retanght the lesson thou hadst taught, 
And in thy spirit with thee fought — 
Who sprang from English blood I 

Bnt thou rejoice with liberal joy, 

Lift up thy rocky face, 
And shatter, when the storms are black, 
In many a streaming torrent back. 

The seas that shock thy base 1 

Whatever harmonies of law 
The growing world assnme^ 



Thy work is thine — the single Mile 
From that deep chord whioh " 
smote 
Will vibrate to the doom. 



THE GOOSE 
Fiist printed in 1842, and BnehangsA 

I KNBW an old wife lean and poor. 
Her rags scarce held together; 

There strode a stranger to the doof^ 
And it was windy weather. 

He held a goose upon his arm. 
He utter 'd rhyme and reason: 

* Here, take the goose, and keep yoa wmm 
It is a stormy season.' 

She caught the white goose by the leg^ 
A goose — 't was no great matter. 

The i^oose let faXi a golden egg 
With cackle and with clatter. 

She dropt the goose, and caught the pel^ 
And ran to tell her neighbors. 

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself 
And rested from her labors; 

And feeding high, and living softy 
Grew plump and able-bomed, 

Until the grave churchwarden doiPd, 
The parson smirk'd and nodded. 

So sitting, served by man and miud. 
She felt her heart grow prouder; 

But ah I the more the white goose laid 
It dack'd and cackled louc^r. 

It dutter'd here, it chnckled there. 
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle; 

She shifted in her elbow-chair, 
And hurl'd the pan and kettle. 

' Aquinsy choke thy cursed note I * 
Then wax'd her anger stronger. 

' Go, take the goose, and wring her thioat 
I will not b^tf it longer.' 

Then yelp'd the cnr, and yawl'd the mX^ 
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. 

The goose flew this way and flew that* 
And fill'd the house with olamor. 



THE EPIC 



«3 



■pontile floor 
Tkj flMOidor'd au together, 
Tk&n ilrade a stnuiger to the door, 
iaiitwie wiady weather. 



Bi tiok the fooee apon 
Ht iltir^d words of soorning: 

^febipjoaeoldyor keep you wann. 
It ii a itonDy moming. 

He wild wiad rang from park and plaiiiy 
iidrauid the attioa rambled. 



Till all the tables danced again, 
And half the chimneys tumbled. 

The glass blew in, the fire blew ont, 
The blast was bard and harder. 

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, 
And a whirlwind dear'd the larder; 

And while on all sides breaking loose 
Her household fled the danger. 

Quoth she, ' The devil take tiro goose. 
And God forget the stranger I* 



ENGLISH IDYLS 



AND OTHER POEMS 
A heading adopted in the 1884 and subsequent editions. 



THE EPIC 

pabUriMd fai 1&12, but written as early 
Mlia& See Notes. 

At Fiaaeb Allen's on the Christmas- 



or dwindled down to some odd 



of forfeits done — the girls all 

kiMfd 

Bweath tba sacred bush and past away — 
Tke paiaon Holmes, the poet Everard 

Han, 
Tke bostp and I sat round the wassail- 

bOWly 

TWa half-way ebb'd; and there we held 

atalk. 
Bam all the old honor had from Christmas 



Or 



odd nooks like this; till I, tired 

ont 
With cutting eights that day npon the 

po n d, to 

WWre, three times slipping from the outer 

•dge, 
I Wmp*d the ice into three sereral stars. 
Fell ta a dose; and half-awake I heard 
The paiMio takinff wide and wider sweeps. 
How haiping on tne ehurch-eommissiooers, 
Now hawking at geolognr and schism; 
Uilfl I woke» ana found him settled down 
Ufom the general decay of faith 



Right thro' the world: 'at home was little 

left. 
And none abroad; there was no anchor, 

none, to 

To hold by.' Francb, laughing, clapt his 

On Ererard's shoulder, with *I hold by 
him.' 

* And I,' quoth ETcrard, * by the wassail- 

bowl.' 

* Why yes,' I said, * we knew your gift that 

way 
At college; but another which you had — 
I mean of rerse (for so we held it then). 
What came of that ? ' ' You know,' said 

Frank, * he burnt 
His epic, his King Arthur, some tweWe 

books' — 
And then to me demanding why: ' O, sir, 
He thought that nothing new was said, or 

else yo 

Something so said 't was nothing — that 

a tnith 
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day; 
God knows; he has a mint of reasons; ask. 
It pleased me well enough.' 'Nay, nay,' 

said Hall, 

* Why take the style of those heroic times ? 
For nature brings not back the mastodon. 
Nor we those times; and why should any 

man 
Remodel models? these twelTc books of 
mine 



64 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Were faint Homeric echoes, nothingt-worth, 
Mere chaff and draff, mach better burnt.' 

* Bat V 40 

Said Francis, *pick'd the eleventh from 

this hearth. 
And have it; keep a thing, its ose will 

come. 
I hoard it as a snear-plum for Holmes.' 
He laogh'd, and li tho' sleepy, like a horse 
That heais the oom-bin open, priok'd my 



For I remember'd Everaid's college &me 
When we were Freshmen. Then at my 

reqaest 
He brought it; and the poet, little urged. 
Bat with some prelude of disparagement, 
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes. 
Deep-chested music, and to this resolt. 51 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 

So all day long the ncnse of battle roll'd 
Amoofi^the mountains by the winter sea. 
Until King Arthar's table, man by man. 
Had fallen in Lyonness about their lord. 
King ^hop; then, because his wound 

deep. 

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him. 
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights. 
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
A broken chancel with a broken cross, 60 
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 
On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
Lay a g^reat water, and the moon was full. 
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
vere: 
' The sequel of to-day ansolders all 
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 
Whereof this world holds record. Such a 

sleep 
They sleep — the men I loved. I think 

that we 
Shall never more, at any future time. 
Delight our souls widi talk of knightly 

deeds, 70 

Walking about the gardens and the halls 
Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
I perish by this people which I made, — 
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come 

again 
To rule once more — but let what will be 

be, 
I am so deeplv smitten thro' the helm 
That without nelp I cannot 1& t till mom. 



Thou therefore take mv brand RieaKhi^ 
Which was my pride; for thoa lemembwi 

est how 
In those old days, one smnmer noon, am 

arm u 

Rose up from out the bosom of tlie laka. 
Clothed in white samite, mystio, waadnhUt^ 
Holding the sword — and haw I low^ 

across 
And took it, and have worn it, like a ki^g; 
And, wheresoever I am sane or told 
In af tertime, this also shall be knowii. 
But now delay not; take Ezcalibur, 
And fling him far into the middle mere; 
Watch what thou seest, and lightly fanag 

me word.' 
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: 9» 
'It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 

thus. 
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. 
A little thing may harm a wounded man. 
Tet I thy best wUl all perform at fall. 
Watch wha* I see. and lightl, bring thee 

word- 
So saying, from the rain'd shriae he 

stept 
And in the moon athwart the place of 

tombs. 
Where lay the mighty bones of aneient 

men. 
Old knight», and over them the sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, step- 
ping down xtfo 
By zigzag paths and iuts of pointed rock. 
Came on the shining levels of the lake. 
There drew he forth the brand Exeali- 

bur, 
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon. 
Brightening the skirts of a long doad, ran 

forth 
And sparkled keen with frost against the 

hUt; 
For all the haft twinkled with diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work 
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 

stood, 110 

This way and that dividing the swift mind. 
In act to throw; but at the last it seem'd 
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
There in the many-knotted water-flags. 
That whistled stiff and dry about the 

marge. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 



65 



liMN^ hm iMok slow to the wounded 

TInipilDt Kii^ Artlmr to Sir Bedivere: 
*bit tm petfo r m 'd mj mianoa which I 

tftfe? 
Wkl II it tlMM hut Men, or w^t hast 
iNud?* 
iai iMwer made the hokl Sir Bedi- 
i«e: iw 

*I kmd the ripple washing in the reeds, 
iid ths wild water lapping on the crag.' 
Tt whom replied King Arthur, faint and 
psle: 
'Hot last betray'd thy natore and thy 



111 iradering tree answer, as beseem'd 
Tkj fnlty, nor like a noble knight; 
FvMwngn had foUow'd, either hand. 
Or fM^ or else a motion of the mere. 
Hit ii a shamefnl thing for men to lie. 199 
Tfl aow, I charge thee, quickly go again 
Am tkea art lief and dear, and do the thing 
1 bade thee» watch, and lightly bring me 

— nail 9 w • w 

worUa 
Thn went Sir Bediyere the second time 
the ridge, and paced beside the 



CeaatiBg the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought ; 
Bel when he saw the wonder of the hilt. 
How enrioosly and strangely chased, he 



His pains together, and he cried aloud: 
' Aad if indeed I cast the brand away, 

SavelT a preeioas thing, one worthy note, 140 

Shonld thos be lost forever from the earth, 

Whieb might have pleased the eyes of 

many men. 

What good should follow this, if thb were 
done? 

What hamiy nndoiie? deep harm to dis- 
obey, 

Seeing obedieaee b the bond of rule. 

Ware it well to obey then, if a king de- 



Aa act «i|xroAtabIe, against himself ? 
Tba king is sick, ana knows not what he 



What foeord, or what relic of my lord 
8ho«ld be to aftertime, but empty breath iso 
And rwDors of a doubt? but were thb 
kept, 

in some treasure-house of mighty 
kings, 

oaa might show it at a joust of arms, 
" Ki^ Arthur's swora, Ezcalibor, 



Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Uke; 

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 
deeps 

Upon the nidden bases of the hills." 

So might some old man speak in the after- 
time 

To all the people, winning reverence; 

But now much honor and much fame were 

lost' 160 

So spake he, clouded with hb own eon- 

ceit. 
And hid Ezealibur the second time. 
And so strode back slow to the wounded 

king. 
Then spoke King Arthur, bieathing heav- 

iljr: 
' What 18 it thou hast seen, or what hast 
heard?' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 
' I heard the water lapping on the crag. 
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.* 
To whom replied King <^thur, much io 

wrath: 
' Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 170 

Unknightly, traitor-hearted I Woe b me t 
Anthori^ forgets a dying king. 
Laid wiciow'd of the power in nb eye 
That bow'd the wilL I see thee what thou 

art. 
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights. 
In whom should meet the offices of all. 
Thou wonldst betray me for the precious 

hilt; 
Either from lust of sold, or like a girl 
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, 180 
And the third time may prosper, get thee 

hence; 
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, 
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.' 

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran. 
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 

plunged 
Among the bulrush-beds, and dutch'd the 

sword. 
And strongly wheel'd and threw it The 

great brand 
Made lightnings in the splendor of the 

moon. 
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd 

in an arch. 
Shot like a streamer of the northern room. 
Seen where the moving bles of winter 

shock «ff 

By night, with noises of the northern sea. 



66 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



So flash'd and fell the hmA Exoalibur; 
Bat ere he dipt the sarfaoe, mee an arm 
Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonderful. 
And cau|^ht him by the hilt, and brandish'd 

hmi 
Three times, and drew him onder in the 

mere* 
And lig^y went the other to the king. 
Then sp^e King Arthur, drawing thicker 

broath: 
'Now see I bj thine ejes that this is 

done. aoo 

Speak out; what b it thoa hast heard, or 

seen?' 
And answer made the bold Sir Bedirere : 

* Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the 

gems 
Should olind my purpose, for I never saw, 
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die. 
Not tho' I live three lires of mortal men. 
So great a miracle as yonder hilt. 
Then with both hands I flung him, wheel- 
ing him; 
But when I look'd again, behold an arm, 
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
ful, aio 
That cauffht him by the hilt, and bran- 

disn'd him 
Three times, and drew him under in the 
mere.' 
And answer made King Arthur, breath- 
ing hard: 

* My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were 

gone. 
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 

weight, 
And bear me to the margin; jet I fear 
My wound hath taken cmd, and I shall die.' 
So saying, from the pavement he half 

rose. 
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
And looking wistfully with wide blue 

eyes aio 

As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
And would have spoken, but he found not 

words, 
Then took with care, and kneeling on one 

knee, 
O'er both hb shoulders drew the languid 

hands. 
And rising bore him thro' the place of 

tombs. 
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 

hud, 



Like one that feels a nightmare on hit bei 
When all the house is mute. So mfjM 

the king. 
Ma t terin g ai^ murmoring at hit eei^ 

' Quick, quick ! n» 

I fear it is too late, and I shall die.* 
But the other swiftly strode from ndge to 

rid^f 
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as 1m 

walk'd. 
Larger than human on the froien hilla. 
He heard the deep behind him, uid a eijr 
Before. His own tbooght drove him like m 

goad. 
Dry elash'd his harness in the iej eaves 
And barren chasms, and all to left aad 

right 
The bare black difF dang'd loond him, as 

he based 
His feet on juts of slippery crag thai 

ran^ a^o 

Sharp -smitten with the dint of armed 

heels — 
And on a sudden, lo I the level lake. 
And the long glories of the winter moon. 
Then saw &ey how there hove a dosky 

barge. 
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stsm. 
Beneath them; and descending they were 



That all the decks were dense with stately 

forms 
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — 

by these 
Three queens with crowns of gold — and 

from them rose 
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, aso 
And, as it were one voice, an agony 
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
All night in a waste land, where no one 

comes, 
Or hath come, since the making of the 

world. 
Then murmur'd Arthur, * Place me in the 

barge,' 
And to the barge they came. There thoee 

three queens 
Put forth their hands, and took the kin^ 

and wept. 
But she that rose the tallest of them all 
And fairest laid his head npon her lap. 
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed 

his hands, ate 

And call*d him by his name, com] 

loud. 



MORTE D'ARTHUR 



67 



JUl ^Npsiif bitter tean •gainst his brow 
Sbnfti mA dark blood; for aU his face 

WMvUto 
ill e>loris«, and like tho withered moon 
Saili by the fraah beam of the springing 



iiri an hii gr e a y ee and enissee dash'd with 

drape 
Of amt; and the light and Instroos curls — 
Thu Bide hie forehead like a rising sun 
Hi|fcbonthe dais-throne — were paroh'd 

with dost; 
Or, dotted into points and hanging loose, 
Mii'd with the kiiightlj growth that fringed 

his lips. a7> 

Stiike a shatter*d eolamn lay the king; 
K«C like that Arthur who, with lance in 



PWb ipur to plume a star of tournament, 
Skot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged 
fidhie the ejes of ladies and of kings. 

Th» loodl J cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
'Ah I Bj Lonl Arthur, whither shall I go 7 
Where shall I hide my forehead and my 

eyes? 
F« BOW I see the true old times are 
dead, aSo 

Whea erery morning brought a noble 

chance. 
And every chance brought out a noble 

knight. 
Sack times have been not since the light 

that led 
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. 
Bat BOW the whole roumd table is dis- 
solved 
WUek was an image of the mighty world ; 
And I, the last, go forth companionless, 
Aad tbe days <Mrken round me, and the 



men, strange faces, other 



Aad alowly answer'd Arthur from the 

barge: tv* 

' TkB old order ehangeth, yielding plaoe to 



And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lsat oae good custom should corrupt the 

world. 
Comfoft thvself : what comfort is in me ? 
I kave lived my life, and that which I have 

done 
May He within himself make poret but 

tkoo. 
If tho« shoBldst never see my face again, 



Pray for my soul. More things are wrought 

by prayer 
Than thb world dreams of. Wherefore, 

let thy voice 
Rise like a fountain for me night and 

day. 300 

For what are men better than sheep or 

goats 
That nourish a blind life within the brain. 
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 

prayer 
Both lor themselves and those who eall 

them friend ? 
For so the whole round earth is every way 
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
But now farewell. I am going a long way 
With these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
For all my mind is clouded with a doubt — 
To the island-valley of Avilion; jk> 

Where IbIIs not hail, or rain, or any snow, 
Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies 
Deep-meadow*d, happy, fair with orchard 

lawns 
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer 

sea. 
Where I will heal me of my grievooi 

wound.' 
So said he, and the barge with oar and 

sail 
Moved from the brink, like some full- 
breasted swan 
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the 

flood 
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedi- 

vere jao 

Revolving many memories, till the hull 
Looked one black dot against the verge of 

dawn, 
And on the mere the wailing died away. 

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that 

long 
Had wink^ and threaten'd darkness, flared 

and fell; 
At which the parson, sent to sleep vrith 

sound, 
And waked with silenoe, grunted ' Good I * 

but we 
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he 

read — 
Perhaps some modem touches here and 

there 
Redeemed it from the charge of nothing- 
ness — 



68 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Or else we loTed the man, and priced his 

work; 
I know not; hnt we sitting, as I said. 
The cock crew loud, as at that time of 

year 
The lastj bird takes cTerr honr for dawn. 
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill- 
used, 
* There now — that 's nothing I ' drew a lit- 
tle back, 
And drove his heel into the smoulder*d log. 
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue. 
And so to bed, where yet in sleep I seemed 
To sail with Arthur under looming shores, 
Pmnt after point; till on to dawn, when 
dreams 341 

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day. 
To me, methought, who waited with the 

crowd. 
There came a bark that, blowing forward, 

bore 
King Arthur, like a modem gentleman 
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 
' Arthur is come again: he cannot die.' 
Then those that stood upon the hills be- 
hind 
Eepea.«d-.Con.. .gain. «d thrice « 

And, further inland, Toices echoed — 
'Come 350 

With all good things, and war shaU be no 
more. 

At this a hundred bells began to peal. 

That with the sound I woke, aud heard in- 
deed 

The clear church-bells ring in the Christ- 
mas mom. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



OR, THE PICTURES 

Fint printed in 1842. 

This morning is the morning of the day. 
When I and Eustace from the city went 
To see the Gardener's daughter; 1 and he, 
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete 
Portion'd in halves between us, that we 

grew 
The fable of the city where we dwelt. 
My Eustace might hare sat for Her- 
cules; 
80 muscular he spread, so broad of breast. , 



He, by some law that holds in lore, 

draws 

The greater to the lesser, long desired m 
A certain miracle of symmetry, 
A miniature of loveliness, all grace 
Sunom'd up and closed in UtUe; — Jnliet, 

she 
So light of foot, so light of spirit — O, she 
To me myself, for some three eutitm 

moons. 
The summer pilot of an empty heart 
Unto the shores of nothing ! Know yoi 

not 
Such touches are but embassies of LofV^ 
To tamper with the feelings, ere he fooiid 
Empire for life ? but Eustace painted hen 
And said to me, she sitting with na then, 11 
* When will you paint like this ? ' and I 

replied — 
l^fy words were half in earnest, half in jest* 
*'Ti8 not your work, but Lore's. Lore, 

unperceiTed, 
A more ideal artist he than all. 
Came, drew yonr pencil from yon, mads 

those eyes 
Darker than darkest pansies, and that ban 
More black than ashbuds in the feoot d 

March.' 
And Juliet answer'd laughing, ' Go and aei 
The Gardener's daughter; trust me, aftei 

that, y 

You scarce can fail to match his master 

piece.' 
And up we rose, and on the spnr we went 
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite 
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I lore. 
News from the humming city comes to it 
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; 
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, yoi 

hear 
The windy clanging of the minster clock; 
Altho' between it and the garden lies 
A league of gra^s, wash'd by a slow brasd 

stream, 41 

That, stirr*d with languid pulses of the oar 
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on. 
Barge-laden, to three arches of a oridge 
Crown'd with the minster-towers. 

The fields betweei 
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-odder'd 

kine, 
And all about the large lime feathen 

low — 
The lime a summer home of mnrmnrooi 

wings. 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



£i tbi stffl plsM alie, houdad in hsnelf , 
fiifVyteldoai Men; not last «mong os lived 
Um Ihm froa lip to lip. Who had not 

keaid 50 

OfBoM.theGtfdener'sdmaghter? Where 

wube, 
bUat in memorjt ao old at heartt 
itnefc a distanoe from hii youth in grief, 
Hal, kaTiaff laan, forgot 7 The common 

BMMthy 

Si {Mi to ezpraaa delight, in praise of her 
Gnw oralorj. Soeh a lord is Loye, 
Asd Beaatj sueh a mistress of the world. 
Aad if i said that Fanoj» led by Love, 
W«ld play with flying forms and images, 
Til tins is also tme, that, long before 60 
I look'd apon her, when I heard her name 



Vf htui was like a prophet to my heart, 
AimI told AM I should love. A crowd of 

liil ioaght to sow themselves like winged 

■cnuy 
Ban oat of evarjrthing I heard and saw, 
flitter'd about my senses and mv soul; 
iad vague desires, like fitful'bksts of 

balm 
To OM that travels quickly, made the air 
Of Kfs dalieioiis, and all kinds of thought, 
Hat ▼erged npon them, sweeter than the 
dr«un 70 

AnniVl by a happy man, when the dark 

East, 
CMtCBt ■• bri^taning to his bridal mom. 
Aad save this orbit of the memory folds 
Far cv«r in itself the day we went 
To aaa ber. All the land in flowery 



a broad and eqnal-blowing wind, 
of the coming summer, as one large 
cloud 
Dmw downward ; bnt all else of heaven was 



Up to the son, and Biay from verge to 

varge, 
Aad Ifaj with me from bead to becL And 

■ow, 80 

As tlw* t ware yesterday, as tho' it were 

jnst flown, that mom with all its 



For IhoM old Mays had thrice the life of 
these-— 

in mina ears. The staar forgot to 
graaa, 

woara the hedge-row cots the path- 
wav, stood, 



Leaning his boms into the naig^ibor field 
And lowine to his fellows. Ftem tha 

woods 
Came voices of the well-contented doves. 
The lark could scarce get out his notes for 

307. 
But shook his song together as he near'd 

His happy home, the ground. To left and 

nght, 91 

The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; 
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; 
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale 
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of 

day. 
And Eustace tnm*d, and smiling said to 

me: 
* Hear how the bushes echo I by my life. 
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think 

you they sing 
Like poets, from the vanity of song ? 99 
Or have they any sense of why they sing ? 
And would they praise the heavens for 

what they have ? ' 
And I made answer: *Wera there nothing 

else 
For which to praise the heavens but only 

love. 
That only love were cause enough for 

praise.' 
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my 

thought. 
And on we went; bnt are an hour had 

pas8*d. 
We reached a meadow slanting to the 

North, 
Down which a well-wora pathway eonrtad 

ns 
To one green wicket in a privet hedge. 
This, yielding, gave into a gnusy walk im 
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trinuy praned; 
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfuma^ 

blew 
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. 
The garden stretches southward. In tha 

midst 
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of 

shaae. 
The garden-glasses shone, and momently 
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lighta. 
'Eustace,' I said, <this wonder keeps 

the bouse.' 
He nodded, but a moment afterwards 
He cried, ' Look ! look ! ' Before he 

I tnm'd, CM 

Aad, are a star eaa wink, beheld her tharai 



70 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



For np tho porch there grew an Eastem 

rose. 
That, flowering high, the last night's gale 

had caught 
And hlown across the walk. One arm 

aloft — 
Gown'd in pore white that fitted to the 

shape — 
Holding the bush, to fix it hack, she stood, 
A single stream of all her soft brown 

hair 
Pour'd on <me side; the shadow of the flow- 
ers 
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering 
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist — iy> 
Ah, happy shade I — and still went wavering 

down. 
But, ere it tonch'd a foot, that might have 

danced 
The greensward into greener circles, dipt. 
And mix'd with sha£>ws of the common 

ground* 
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and 

sunn'd 
Her violet eves, and all her Hebe bloom. 
And doubled his own warmth against her 

lips, 
And on the boonteous wave of such a 

breast 
As never pencil drew. Half light, half 

shade. 
She stood, a sight to make an old man 

yonng. 140 

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a 

Rose 
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil. 
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance 

tum'd 
Into the world without; till close at hand. 
And almost ere I knew mine own intent. 
This murmur broke the stillness of that 

air 
Which brooded round about her : 

< Ah, one rose. 
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers 

cuird. 
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on 

lips 
Less exquisite than thine.' 

Shelook'd;butall 
Suffused with blushes — neither self-pos- 

sess'd 151 

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and 

that, 
in a graoefol ijuict —^paused, 



And dropt the braneh she held, and 

ing wound 
Her looser hair in braid, and stirred 

lips 
For some sweet answer, tho' no 

came. 
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it^ 
And moved away, and left me, statne-lika^ 
In act to render thanks. 

I, that whole day. 
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there ite 
mi every daisy slept, and Love's whita 

Sttf 

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd oedar in the 

dusk. 
So home we went, and all the livelong 

way 
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. 
* Now,' said he, ' will you climb the top ol 

art 
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim 
The Titianic Flora. Will you match 
My Juliet? you, not yoo, — the nrntttm, 

Love, 
A more ideal artist he than all.' 
So home I went, but could not sleep for 

joy, no 

Reading her perfect features in the rioom. 
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er ujSl o'ef^ 
And shaping faithful record of the glanee 
That graced the giving — such a noise of 

life 
Swarm'd in the golden present, sneh m 

voice 
Call'd to me from the years to come, and 

such 
A length of bright horizon rinmi'd the 

dark. 
And all that night I heard the watchmaa 

peal 
The sliding season; all that night I heard 
The heavy clocks knoUing the drowsy 

hours. ito 

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good. 
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, 
Distilling odors on me as they went 
To greet their fairer sisters of the East. 
I^ve at first sight, first-bom, and heir 

to all, 
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall 

nor storm 
Could keep me from that Eden where she 

dwelt, 
light pretexts drew me: sometimes a 

I)utch love 



THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER 



71 



frntJaft; thea for roiei, moM or musk, 
Tt gneo my ci^ loomB; or fruits and 



190 



htni m the wooping elm; and more and 



Amd floold hring tbe color to my cheek; 
A lliMhf woold 111 my ejee with happy 

oinr; 
Uii trthled life within me, and with each 
IkjiariBereaeed. 

The daughters of the year, 
Oil ifter one, thro' that still garden 

pess'd; 
uA firlaaded with her peculiar flower 
Ikaui into light, and died Into the shade; 
kd mtk in passing tooch'd with some 



Or Mem'd to touch her, so that day by 
day, aoo 

lib oae that never can be wholly known, 
Htrbcaaty grew; till Autunm brought an 

hour 
Fv Eastaee, when I heard his deep 'I 

wiU/ 
Bnsthed, like the eoTcnant of a God, to 

hold 
hm thenee thro' all the worlds; but I 

rose up 
hSk of his dUsb, and following her dark 

•yet 
Fdt eaith as air beneath me, till I reach'd 
IW wieket-gate, and found her standing 
there. 
TImto sat we down upon a garden 
mound. 
Two Butaall^ enfolded; Lore, the third, a 10 
Between os, m the circle of his arms 
Enwwuid us both; and over many a range 
Of wantDff lime the gray cathednd towers, 
Amom a ha^ glimmer of the west, 
BaveAlMthetr shining windows. From them 

ebah*d 
Tkm bells; we listen'd; with the time we 

We apoke of other things; we coursed 

about 
TW asbjeet most at heart, more near and 



like dores about a dovecote, wheeling 

round 
The central wish, until we settled there, aao 
Thau, in that time ard place, I spoke to 

ber, 
Kei|idriag, tho' I knew it was mine own, 
Tet for the pleasure that I took to hear. 



Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, 
A woman's heart, the heart of her i loved; 
And in that time and place she answer'd me, 
And in the compass of three little words, 
More musical than ever came in one. 
The silver fragments of a broken voice, 
Made me most happy, faltering, 'I am 

thine.' ajc 

Shall I cease here ? Is this enough to 

say 
That my desire, like all strongest hopes, 
Bv its own energy fulfilled itself. 
Merged in completion ? Would you learn 

at full 
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond all grades develop'd ? and indeed 
I had not staid so long to tell you all. 
But while I mused came Memory with sad 

eyes. 
Holding the folded annals of my youth; 
And wmle I mused. Love with knit brows 

went by, 140 

And with a flying finger swept my lips. 
And spake, ' Be wise : not easily forgiven 
Are those who, setting wide the doors that 

bar 
The secret bridal chambers of the heart. 
Let in the day.' Here, then, my words 

have end. 
Yet miffht I tell of meetings, of faro- 

wefls — 
Of that which came between, more sweet 

than each, 
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves 
That tremble round a nightingale — in 

sighs 
Which perfect Joy, perplez'd for utter- 
ance, ajo 
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not 

tell 
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given. 
And vows, where there was never need of 

vows. 
And kisses, where the heart on one wild 

leap 
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above 
The heavens between their fairy fleeces 

pale 
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting 

stars; 
Or while the balmy glooming, erescent-lit. 
Spread the light haze along the river- 
shores. 
And in the hollows; or as once we met t/tt 



7« 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Unbeedfnl, tho' beneath a whispering nin 
Night slid down one long stream of sighing 

wind, 
•And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep ? 
But this whole hour jour eyes have been 

intent 
On that veil'd picture — veil'd, for what it 

holds 
May not be dwelt on by the common day. 
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy 

soul. 
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes; 

the time 
Is come to raise the veil. 

Behold her there, 
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, 270 
My first, last love; the idol of my youth. 
The darling of my manhood, and, alas I 
Now the moat blessed memory of mine 

age. 

DORA 

This poem, first printed in 1842, and unal- 
tered since, * was partly suggested,* as a note 
hi the editions of 1842 and 1843 informs us, 
' by one of Miss Mitf ord*8 pastorals,* — the 
story of ' Dora CreasweU * in * Our Village.' 

With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
William and Dora. William was his son. 
And she his niece. He often look'd at 

them. 
And often thoueht, ' I '11 make them man 

and wife. 
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
And yeam'd toward William; but the 

youth, because 
He had been always with her in the house, 
Thought not of Dora. 

Then there came a day 
When Allan call'd his son, and said: * My 

son, 
I married late, but I would wish to see 10 
My grandchild on my knees before I die; 
And 1 have set my heart upon a match. 
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well 
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. 
She is my brother's daughter; he and I 
Had once hard words, and parted, and he 

died 
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 
His daughter Dora. Take her for your 

wife; 
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and 

day, 



-d 



For many years.' But William 

short: 
' I cannot marry Dora; bymy life, 
I will not marrv Dora! ' Then the old 
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and 

said: 
<You will not, boyl yon dare to answer 

thus I 
But in my time a father's word was law. 
And so it shall be now for me. Look to H; 
Consider, William, take a month to think. 
And let me have an answer to my wish. 
Or, by the Lord that made me, you slnD 

pack, 29 

And never more darken my doors again.' 
But William answer'd madly, bit his lini, 
And broke away. The more he look'a at 

her 
The less he liked her; and his ways were 

harsh; 
But Dora bore them meekly. Then be- 
fore 
The month was out he left his Other's 

honse. 
And hired himself to work within the 

fields; 
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and 

wed 
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allao 

call'd 
His niece and said: 'My girl, I love yon 

well; 40 

But if you speak with him that was my 

son. 
Or change a word with her he oalla his 

wife. 
My home is none of yours. My will is 

law.' 
An<!l Dora promised, being meek. She 

thought, 
<It cannot be; my uncle's mind will 

change !' 
And days went on, and there was bom 

a boy 
To William ; then distresses came on him. 
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate. 
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him 

not. 
But Dora stored what little she eould 

save, sc 

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they 

know 
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized 
On William, and in harvest time he died* 



DORA 



73 



IWb Doca wenl to Maiy. Maiy sat 
iai look*d with tean opon her bojr, and 

thought 
BudtyagB of Dora. Dora came and said: 

'I hn% ob^*d mT oncle until now, 
ill I kave iiiui'd, for it was all thro' me 
nhtfil eame on William at the first. 
H Marjy for the sake of him that 's 

sose, 60 

Mai lor jour sake, the woman that he 

dMisey 
Asi for this orphan, I am come to you. 
T« ksow there has not been for these fire 



St Ml a harrest. Let me take the hoy, 
Asdl will set him in my uncle's eye 
Ammf the wheat; that when his heart is 



tfdl] 



Of lie fall hanresty he may see the boy, 
isdhlsss him for the sake of him that 's 



Asd Dora took the child, and went her 

way 
Acnii the wheat, and sat upon a mound 70 
IW was onsown, where many poppies 

grew. 
Fsr off the farmer came into the field 
isd spied her not, for none of all his 



Ikn tell him Dora waited with the child ; 
Ami Dora would have risen and gone to 



Bat her heart fail'd her; and the reapers 

reap'd. 
And the son fell, and all the land was 

dark. 
Bat when the morrow came, she rose 

and took 
The ehild ooee more, and sat opon the 

mound; 79 

Aad Bade a little wreath of all the flowers 
That grew about, and tied it round his hat 
To make him plc«sing in her uncle's eye. 
IWb when toe farmer pass'd into the 

field 
Ha apicd her, and he left his men at work, 
Aad cmme and said: .' Where were you 

yesterday ? 
Whoaa child is that ? What are you doinir 

here?' ^ 

So Dorm east her eyes upon the ground, 
Aad aaswer'd sof Uy, < Thb is William's 

child I' 
• Aad did I not,' said Allan, <did I not 
Forbid yoo, Dora?' Dora said again; 90 



'Do with me as you will, but take the 

child, 
And bless him for the sake of him that 's 

gone!' 
And AUan said: ' I see it is a trick 
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. 
I must be taught my duty, and by you ! 
You knew my wora was law, and yet you 

To slight it Well — for I will take the 

boy; 
But go you hence, and never see me more.' 
So saving, he took the boy that cried 

aloud * 

And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers 

feU too 

At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, 
And the boy's cry came to her from the 

field 
More and more distant. She bow'd down 

her head. 
Remembering the day when first she came. 
And all the things that had been. She 

bow'd down 
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd. 
And the sun fell, and all the laud was dark. 
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 

stood 
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
Was not with Dora. She broke out in 

praise 110 

To Goa, that help'd her in her widowhood. 
And Dora said: *My uncle took the boy; 
But, Mary, let me live and work with you: 
He says that he will never see me more.' 
Then answer'd Mary: * This shall never be. 
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thy- 
self; 
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, 
For he will teach him hardness, and to 

slight 
His mother. Therefore thou and I will go. 
And I will have my boy, and bring him 

home; lao 

And I will beg of him to take thee back. 
But if he will not take thee back again. 
Then thou and I will live within one house. 
And work for William's child, until he 

grows 
Of age to help us.' 

So the women kiss'd 
Each other, and set out, and reach'd tht 

farm. 
The door was oif the latch; they peep'^ 

and 



74 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



The boj aet ap betwixt his grandsire's 

knees, 
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, 
And olapt him on the hands and on the 
cheeks, 130 

like one that lored him; and the lad 

stretched oat 
And babbled for the golden seal, that hang 
From Allan's watch and sparkled bj the 

fire. 
Then thej came in; bat when the boj be- 
held 
His mother, he cried oat to come to her; 
And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 

• O father ! — if yoa let me call yoa so — 

I never came a-begging for myself, 

Or William, or this child; but now I come 

For Dora; take her back, she loves yoa 

welL 140 

Sir, when William died, he died at peace 
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said. 
He could not ever rue his marrying me — 

1 had been a patient wife; but. Sir, he said 
That he was wrong to cross his father thus. 
'* Grod bless him ! ** he said, ^ and may he 

never know 
The troubles I have gone thro' I" Then 

he tum'd 
His faoe and pass'd — unhappy that I am ! 
But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for you 
Will make him hard, and he will learn to 

slight ISO 

His father's memory; and take Dora back, 
And let aU this be as it was before.' 

So Mary said^ and Dora hid her face 
By Mary. There was silence in the room ; 
And all at once the old man burst in 

sobs: 
<I have been to blame — to blame. I 

have kiird my son. 
I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 

dear son. 
May God forgive me ! — I have been to 

blame. 
Eliss me, my children.' 

Then they clung about 
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 

times. 160 

And all the man was broken with remorse ; 
And all his love came back a hundred-fold; 
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's 

child 
Thinking of William. 

So those four abode 
Within one house together, and as years 




Went forward Mary took another mate; 
Bat Dora lived unmarried till her datJk 



AUDLEY COURT 

Firat pinted in 1842, and nnaltered 
for the maertion of lines 77 (* A rolling 
etc.) and 86 C Sole star,' eto.). 



* The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, aad 

a room 
For love or money. Let us pienie theie 
At Audley Court.' 

I spoke, while Aodley 
Humm'd like a hive all round the 



quay, 

To Francis, with a basket on his arm. 
To Francis just alighted from the boat 
And breathiug of the sea. * With, all 

heart,' 
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thn^ 

the swarm. 
And rounded by the stillness of the beadi 
To where the luiy runs up its latest hom. v 
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd 
The flat red granite; so by many a sweep 
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we 

reach'd 
The griffin-guarded gates, and paaa'd throT 

all 
The pillar'd dusk of sounding sycamores. 
And cross'd the garden to the gardener^ 

lodge. 
With all its casements bedded, and its 

walls 
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. 
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis 

laid 
A damask napkin wrought with horse and 

hound, ao 

Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of 

home, 
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made. 
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret 

lay. 
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks 
Imbedded and injellied ; last, with these, 
A flask of cider from his father's vats. 
Prime, which I knew; and so we sat aud 

eat 
And talk'd old matters over, — who was 

dead. 
Who married, who was like to be, and how 
The races went, and who woald xeai the 

hall; 9a 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 



7S 



IW laoek*d apoo the game, how scarce it 

was 
TUmssoii; glaiieuig thence, discuss'd the 



Ik iMv-field system, and the price of 

U ttraek npon the corn-laws, where we 

■plit. 
kd CUM again together on the king 
Witkbntea faces; till he laugh'd aloud, 
Ai^ while the blackbird ou the pippin 

hanr 
Tt War him, clapt his hand in mine and 
iBBg: 
'0, who would fight and march and 
conntermareh, 
Br Aot for sixpence in a battle-field, 40 
ltd iboTcll'd up into some bloody trench 
Wbre DO one knows ? but let me Htc my 
life. 
*0, who would cast and balance at a 
dMk, 
lM*d like a crow upon a three-legg'd 

sloolv 

IB ill his juice u dried, and all his joints 
ii» fsO of cbulk ? but let me live my life. 
*Who'd senre the sUte ? for if I carved 
my name 
rpoa the cliffs that guard my natire land, 
I i^t aa well have traced it in the sands; 
1h§ sea wastes all; but let me live my life. 
*0, who would love ? I woo'd a woman 
onee, st 

Bat she was sharper than an eastern wind, 
And all ray heart tum*d from her, as a 

thorn 
Tma from the sea; but let me live my 
life.' 
He sang his song, and I replied with 



I fooad it in a volume, all of songs, 
Kaoek*d down to me, when old Sir Robert's 

pride. 
His hooks — the more the pity, so I said — 
Cane to the hammer here in March — and 

thia^ 
I sK the words, and added names I knew: 
* Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream 

iiif me: 6t 

Sbcp, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, 
Aad sleeping, haply dream her arm is 



* Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; 
RraiUa, hiirer than all cine but thou. 
Far thou art fairer than all else that is. 



< Sleep, breathing health and peace upon 
her breast; 
Sleep, breathing loye and tnut againBt her 

lip. 

I go to-night; I come to-morrow mom. 

* I go, but I return ; I would I were 70 
The pilot of the darkness and the dream. 
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of 
me.' 

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, 
The farmer's sou, who lived across the bay. 
My friend; and I, that having where- 
withal, 
And in the fallow leisure of my life 
A rolling stone of here and everywhere. 
Did what I would. But ere the night we 



And saunter'd home beneath a moon that, 

just 
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf 80 
Twilights of airy silver, till we reached 
The limit of the hills; and as we sank 
From rock to rock upon the glooming quay. 
The town was hush'd beneath us; lower 

down 
Tlie bay was oily calm; the harboivbuoy. 
Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm, 
With one green sparkle ever and anon 
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart 



WALKING TO THE MAIL 

Firat printed in 1842, and afterwards iilightly 
chao(;^a in the opening Hoes. See Notes. 

John. I 'm gUd I walk'd. How fresh 
the meadows look 
Above the river, and, but a month ago, 
The whole hillside was redder than a foil 
Is yon plantation where this byway joins 
The turnpike ? 

JameM. Yes. 

John. And when does this come by ? 

James. The mail ? At one o clock. 

John. What is it now 7 

James. A quarter to. 

John. Whose house is that I see ? 

No, not the County Member's with the 

vane. « 

Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half 

A score of gables. 

Jnm^s. That ? Sir Fxiward Head'a 

But he 's abroad ; the place is to be sold. 

John. Of his ! He was not broken. 



76 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



No, sir, he, 
Vext with a morhid devil in htB blood 
That Ycird the world with jaundioe, hid hb 

face 
From all men, and commercing with him- 
self. 
He loet the senae that handles daily life — 
That keeps os all in order more or less — 
And sick of home went oYcrseas for 

change. 
Jcihn^ And whither ? 
Jame9, Nay, who knows ? he 's here and 

there. 
But let him go; his devil goes with him, ao 
As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes. 
John. What's that? 
Jama, Ton saw the man — on Monday, 

was it? — 
There by the hnmpback'd willow; half 

stands up 
And bristles, ludf has fallen and made a 

bridee; 
And there he caught the yonnker tickling 

trout — 
Caught in fiagranU — what 's the Latin 

word? — 
ZMicto ; but his house, for so they say. 
Was haunted with a ]oVLj ghost, that shook 
The curtains, whined m lobbies, t^gH at 

doors. 
And rummaged like a rat; no servant 

stay'd. 30 

The farmer vezt packs up his beds and 

chairs. 
And all his household stuff; and with his boy 
Betwixt his knee8, his wife upon the tilt. 
Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, 

•What! 
You're flitting!' <Yes, we're flitting/ 

says the ghost — 
For theyhad pack'd the thing among the 

beds. 
'O, well,' says he, 'yon flitting with ns 

tool- 
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home 

again.* 
John. He left his wife behind; for so I 

heard. 
James. He left her, yes. I met my 

lady once; 40 

A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. 
John, O, yet but I remember, ten years 

back — 
rr is now at least ten years — and then she 



You could not light upon a sweeter tkii|^ 
A body slight and round, and like a pear 
In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a looi 
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a akia 
As dean and white as privet whra it flow-' 
ers. 



James, Ay, ay, the blossom fades^ 

they that loved 
At first like dove and dove were eat 

dog. 
She was the daughter of a cottager. 
Out of her sphere. What betwixt 

and pride. 
New things and old, himself and her, 

sour'd 

To what she is; a nature never kind ! 
Like men, like manners; like breeds likiB^ 

they say. 
Kind nature is the best; those manners neit 
That fit us like a nature second-hand — 
Which are inoeed the manners of the yt e ai 
John, But I had heard it waa this bill 

that past. 
And fear of change at home, that drova 

him hence. te 

James. That was the last drop in tka 

cup of gall. 
I once was near him, when his bailiff 

brought 
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him 

wince 
As from a venomous thing; he thought 

himself 
A mark for all, and sbndder'd, lest a cry 
Should break his sleep by night, and his 

nice eyes 
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs. But, sir, yon 

know 
That these two parties still divide the 

world — 
Of those that want, and those that have;' 

and still 70 

The same old sore breaks out from age to 

age 
With much the same result. Now I my- 
self, 
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy 
Destructive, when I had not what I would. 
I was at school, — a college in the South. 
There lived a flayflint near; we stole his 

fruit. 
His hens, his eggs; but there waa law fat 

vs.* 



EDWIN MORRIS 



77 



Wt |iid bk pefson. He had a sow, sir. 

onBf 
Witt ■tdJtitiTc ipmts of maeh oootent, 
]aj gnat with pig, wallowing in sun uid 

■nd* 80 

l|f Bghl wa dragged her to the college 



hm her warm bed, and ap the coriucrew 

ftair 
With htad and rope we haled the groaning 



All oa the leads we kept her till she 

pigg'd. 
Ijigi range of prospect had the mother 

sow, 
iid bot for daily loss of one she lored 
if «i hj one we took them — but for 

this— 
if leter sow was higher in this world — 
]li|kt hsTe been happy; but what lot is 

pare? 
Wt tooK them all, till she was left alone 90 
r^ bsr tower, the Niobe of swine, 
iM M returned unfarrow'd to her sty. 
JtkfL They found you out ? 
Jma. Not they, 

/ila. Well — after all— 

Wkt kaofw wa of the secret of a man ? 
flii aenres were wrong. What ails us who 

aresoond, 
list we should mimic this raw fool the 

world, 
Whkk eharts us all in its coarse blacks or 

wfaitea, 
Ab ratUesa as a baby with a worm. 
As erwel as a schoolboy ere he grows 99 
Toiaty — more from ignorance than will. 

Mi pot yonr hest foot forward, or I fear 
nat we shall miss the mail; and here it 



Wiik fire at top, as quaint a fonr-in-band 
A» joa ahall see, — three pyebalds and a 



EDWIN MORRIS 

OR, THE LAKE 

in 1A39 during a risit to the Llan- 
laksa ta Wales. Printed io 1851. 



O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 
My sweet, wild, fresh three quarters of a 



aaais in the dust and drouth 



Of city life I I was a sketcher then. 
See here, my doing: curves of mountain 

bridffe, 
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built 
When men knew how to build, npon a 

rock 
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock; 
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold. 
New-comers from the Mersey, million- 
aires, 10 
Here lived the Hills — a Tudor-chimney *d 

bulk 
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. 
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake 
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 
The curate — he was fatter than his cure I 
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the 

names. 
Long learned names of agaric, moss, and 

fern, 
Who forged a thousand theories of the 

roclcs, 
Who taught me how to skate, to row, tt 

swim. 
Who read me rhymes elaborately good, so 
His own — I call*d him Crichtou, for he 

seem'd 
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger-nail. 

And once I ask'd him of his early life, 
And his first passion; and he aiiswer'd me. 
And well his words became him — was he 

not 
A full-ceird honeycomb of eloquence 
Stored from all flowers? roet-like he 

spoke: 
* My love for Nature is as old as I ; 
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that. 
And three rich sennights more, my love for 

her. 30 

My love for Nature and my love for her, 
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew. 
Twin-sisters differently beautiful. 
To some full music rose snd sank the sun, 
And some full music seem'd to move and 

change 
With all the varied changes of the dark, 
And either twilight and the day between; 
For daily hope fulfil I'd. to rise again 
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet 
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to 

breathe.' 40 

Or this or something like to this he 

sp<iko. 
Then wiid the fat-faced curate Edward 

Boll; 



78 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



* I take it, Grod made the woman for the 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the world. 
A pretty face is well, and this is well. 
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up. 
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways 
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed 
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid 

stuff. 
I say, Grod made the woman for the man, 50 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.* 
' Ftoson,' said I, * yon pitch the pipe too 

low. 
But I hare sudden touches, and can run 
My faith beyond my practice into his; 
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, 
I do not hear the cells upon my cap, 
I scarce hare other music — yet say on. 
What should one give to light on such a 

dream?' 
I ask*d him half-sardonically. 

•GiTe? 59 
Give all thou art,' he answer'd, and a light 
Of lautrhter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; 
* I womd have hid her needle in my heart, 
To save her little finger from a scratch 
No deeper than the skin; my ears could 

hear 
Her lightest breath ; her least remark was 

worth 
The experience of the wise. I went and 

came; 
Her Toice fled always thro' the summer 

land; 
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy 

days! 
The flower of each, those moments when 

we met, 69 

The crown of all, we met to part no more.' 

Were not his words delicious, I a beast 
To take them as I did? but something 

jarr'd; 
Whether he spoke too largely, that there 

seem'd 
A touch of something false, some self-con- 
ceit. 
Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was. 
He scarcely hit my humor, and I said: 
'Friend Edwin, do not think yourself 

alone 
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me. 
As in the Latin song^ I learnt at school. 
Sneeze out a full GUMi>bless-you right and 

left? 80 



But yon can talk, yours is a kindly ▼bib; 
I have, I think, — Heaven knowa, — i 

much within; 
Have, or should have, but for a thonglil i 

two. 
That like a purple beech among the ^ 
Looks out of place. Tis from no want k 

her; 
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust. 
Or something of a wayward modem miad 
Dissecting passion. Time will set mt 

riffht.* 
So spoke I, knowing not the things 

were. 
Then said the fat-faced curate, EdwuA. 

BuU: 9^ 

'Grod made the woman for the use dT 

man. 
And for the good and increase of the 

world.' 
And I and Edwin laughed; and now wa 

paused 
About the windings of the marge to hear 
The soft wind mowing over meadowy 

holms 
And alders, earden-isles; and now we left 
The clerk behind ns, I and he, and ran 
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, 
Dielighted with the freshness and the sonnd. 
But when the bracken rusted on their 

crag^, MO 

My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him 
That was a god, and is a lawyer's clerk. 
The rent-roll Cupid of our rainy isles. 
'T is true, we met; one hour I had, no 

more: 
She sent a note, the seal an EUe vou9 ndt, 
The close, ' Your Letty, only yours; ' and 

this 
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of 

mom 
Clung to the lake. I boated over, mn 
My craft aground, and heard with 

heart 
The sweet-gale rustle round the shelving 

keel; tio 

And out I stept, and up I crept. She moved. 
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flow- 
ers. 
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and 

she, 
She tum'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore 

faith, I breathed 
In some new planet. A silent cousin stole 
Upon us and departed. ' Leave,* she 



SAINT SIMEON STYLITES 



79 



KJ^hivt omI' * Never, dearest, never: 



IlHfi ihm wont; * and wbile we stood like 

Ibob 
liAnoMr^ sU at ooee a soore of pags 
lidfMMUea yell'd within, and out they 

SiMe^ lao 

Itens wid aonta and onoles. 'What, 

with him I 
G%' doill'd the eotton- spinning chorus; 

•Urn!' 
I Mad. Arnin they shriek'd the burthen, 

•Himl' 
i|rii with hands of wild rejection, 'Go I — 
Ci^ get yoQ in 1 ' She went — and in one 

Booth 
1W wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, 
Tshsds in Kent and messuages in York, 
iai ihfbt Sir Robert with his watery 

smile 
All cdeeated whisker. But for me, 
IWy let an aneient creditor to work; 130 
It iMms I broke a dose with force and 



That came a mystic token from the king 
Tegiest the sheriff, needless courtesy I 



Iieiid,aBd fled by night, and flying tuni'd; 
Bnuifn glimmer'd m the lake below; 
I tan/d oaee more, cloee-button'd to the 



tfi feft the piaee, left Edwin, nor have seen 
&m since, nor heard of her, nor cared to 



If or eared to hear ? perhaps; yet long 



I hate pardoo'd little Letty; not indeed, 140 
It may be, for her own dear sake, but 

this, — 
She seems a part of those fresh days to me; 
Far m the dost and drouth of London life 
She mcyres among my visions of the lake, 
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or 

then 
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead 
IW light cloud nnoalders on the summer 



SAINT SIMEON STYLITES 
printed hi 1842. In line 801 * brother* 



Altbo^ I be the bnaest of mankind, 

•Mlp to Mb ooa tlottgh and omst of 



Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce 

meet 
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy^ 
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold 
Of saintdom, and to clamor, mourn, and 

sob, 
Batteriuj^ the gates of heaven with storms 

of prayer, 
Have mercy. Lord, and take sway my sin I 
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty 

God, 
Tliis not be all in vain, that thrice ten 

years, 10 

Thrice multiplied bv superhuman pangs. 
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold. 
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throet 

and cramps, 
A sig^ betwixt the meadow and the cloud. 
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne 
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and 

sleet, and snow; 
And I had hoped that ere this period closed 
Thon wouldst have canght me up into thy 

rest. 
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs 
The meed of saints, the white robe and the 

palm. so 

O, take the meaning. Lord I I do not 

breathe. 
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. 
Pain beap'd ten-hnndred-fold to this, were 

still 
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, 
Than were those lead-like tons of sin that 

crush 'd 
My spirit flat before thee. 

O Lord, Lord, 
Thou knowest I bore this better at the 

first. 
For I was strong and hale of body then; 
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt 

away. 
Would chatter with the cold, and all my 

beard jo 

Was tagffd with icy fringes in the moon, 
I drownM the whoopings of the owl with 

sound 
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes 

saw 
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. 
Now am I feeble grown; my end dnws 

nigh. 
I hope my end draws nigh; half deaf I anif 
80 that I ncnrr^ can hear the people hum 
About the column's base, and aloiott MiikL 



8o 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



And scarce can recognize the fields I know; 
And both mj thighs are rotted with the 

dew; 40 

Tet cease I not to cUunor and to cry, 
While my sti£f spine can hold mj weary- 
head. 
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the 

stone. 
Hare mercy, mercy I take away my sin ! 
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul. 
Who may be saved? who is it may be 

sared ? 
Who may be made a saint if I fail here ? 
Show me the man hath suffered more than I. 
For did not all thy martyrs die one death ? 
For either they were stoned, or crucified, 50 
Or bum'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn 
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here 
To-day, and whole years long, a life of 

death. 
Bear witness, if I could have found a way — 
And heedf ully I sifted all my thought — 
More slowly-painful to subdue this home 
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, 
I had not stinted practice, O my Grod I 
For not alone this pillar-punishment, 
Not this alone I bore; but while I lived 60 
In the white convent down the valley there, 
For many weeks about my loins I wore 
The rope that haled the buckets from the 

well. 
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose, 
And spake not of it to a single soul, 
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, 
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell'd g^reatly. More than 

this 
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. 
Three winters, that my soul might grow 

to thee, 70 

I lived up there on yonder mountain-side. 
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; 
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, 

and twice 
Blacked with thy branding thunder, and 

sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating 

not. 
Except the spare chance-gift of those that 

came 
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live. 
And they say then that I work'd miracles, 
Whereof my fame is loud amongst man- 
kind, 80 




Cored lameness, palsies, oaneert. Tht^ 

OGod, 
Knowest alone whether this was or no. 
Have mercy, mercy I cover all my cin 1 
Then, that I might be more alone 

thee, 
Three years I lived upon a jnllary bigli 
Six cubits, and three years on 01 

twelve; 
And twice three years I croueh'd on 

that rose 
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grev 
Twice ten long weary, weary yean to 
That numbers forty cubits &om the soiL 
I think that I have borne as nmcli 

this — 
Or else I dream — and for so long a tane^ 
If I may measure time by yon slow li^it, 
And this high dial, which mj somnr 

crowns — 
So much — even so. 

And yet I know not wtXIp 
For that the evil ones come here, and say, 
* Fall down, O Simeon; thou hast suffered 

long 
For ages and for ages I ' then they fnata 
Of penances I cannot have gone thro'. 
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I £sll, ko 
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargieB 
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time mn 

choked. 

But yet 
Bethink thee. Lord, while then and all the 

saints 
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men 00 

earth 
House in the shade of comfortable roofs. 
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome 

food. 
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts 

have stalls, 
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the 

light. 
Bow down one thousand and two hondred 

times. 
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the 

saints; tio 

Or in the night, after a little sleep, 
I wake; the chill stars sparkle; I am wet 
With drenching dews, or stiff with crack- 
ling frost. 
.1 wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; 
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; 
And in my weak, loui arms I lift the 

cross, 



SAINT SIMEON STYLITES 



8i 



MMm ud WIMU0 with thee tiU I die. 
C^Micj, muey 1 wmih away mj sio I nS 
Lwlt thoa knowest what a man I am; 
Aalil man, ooooeiTed and bom in sin. 
Tiitktir own doing; thii ii none of mine; 
Uf it Mi to me. Am I to blame for this, 
Ikt kavt eoie those that worship me ? 

Hal hat 
tktj tUak that I am somewhat. What 

sal? 
AtaDr people take me for a saint. 
All kuf me offerings of fruit and flow- 

trs; 
Aii I, ta tnrth — thou wilt bear witness 

keie — 
flnt sll ia all endured as much, and 



17 just and holy men, whose 



in itnster'd and calendar*d for saints. 130 

GsMpeof^ you do ill to kneel to me. 
Wkt is it I ean have done to merit this ? 
Ins siBiier Tiler than you all. 
hasj be I have wrought some miracles, 
isdaucd some halt and maim'd; but what 

of that? 
It asy be no one, even amon^ the saints, 
Mqrasteh his pains with mme; but what 

of that? 

Ttt do not rise; for you may look on me, 

iai m yo«r looking you may kneel to 

God. 139 

Bfmkl is there any of you halt or maim*d ? 

Itfciak yo« know I hare some power with 

Hearen 
fnm my kmg penance; let him speak his 



Tee, I ean heal him. Power goes forth 
from me. 

say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark ! 
taey shout 
•8mi« Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so. 
Gad maps a harrest in me. O my soul. 
Gad maps a harrest in thee! If this be, 
I work miraeles and not be mved ? 
■B is Boi tfl»ld of any. They were saints. 
Il eammt be but that I shall be mred, 150 
T«a,cfowB'dasaint They shout, < Behold 

asaant!' 
Aad lower Toiees saint me from abore. 
Caamfs, Saint Simeon ! This dull duyulis 
into shining wings, and hope ere 



and mom and morOf that 
God hath now 



Sponged and made blank of crimefnl reeord 

My mortal archives. 

O my sons, my sons. 
I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname 
Stylites, among men; I, Simeon, 159 

The watcher on the column till the end; 
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes-, 
I, whose bald brows in silent houn become 
UnnaturallT hoar with rime, do now 
From my high nest of penance hem pro- 
claim 
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side 
Show'd like fair semphs. On the ooals 1 

Uy, 
A Tessel full of sin; all hell beneath 
Made me boil o^er. Devils pluck*d my 

slecTc, 
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. 
I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd 

again. 170 

In bed Tike monstrous apes they erush*d 

my chest; 
The^ flapp'd my light out as I read; I mw 
Their faces grow between me and my 

book; 
With coltlike whinny and with hoggish 

whine 
They burst my prayer. Tet this way was 

left. 
And bj this way I 'scaped them. Mortifr 
Your flesh, like me, with scourges and witn 

thorns; 
Smite, shrink not, spam not. If it may 

be, fast 
Whole Lents, and pmy. I hardly, with 

slow steps. 
With slow, faint steps, and much exceed- 
ing pain, i8» 
Have scrambled past thorn pits of fire, 

that still 
Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the 

praise; 
God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit* 
Among the powers and princes of this 

world, 
To make me an example to mankind, 
Wliich few can reach to. Yet I do not my 
But that a time may come — yea, even 

now, 
Now, now, his footsteps smite the thmsh- 

old stairs 
Of life — I say, that time is at the doors 
When you may wonhip ma without re* 

proach; m 



82 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



For I will leave my relics in jonr land, 
And you may carve a sbrine about my dust, 
And bum a fragrant lamp before my 

bones, 
When I am gathered to the glorious saints. 
While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest 

pain 
Ran slmyelling thro' me, and a doudlike 

change, 
In passing, with a gfrosser film made thick 
These heavy, homy eves. The end ! the end ! 
Snrely the end I W hat 's here ? a shape, 

a shade, 
A flash of light. Is that the angel there 
That holds a crown ? Come, blessed bro- 
ther, come! aoi 
I know thy glittering face. I waited long; 
My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? 
Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch 

it Christ! 
*T is gone; 't is here again; the crown I 

the crown ! 
So now 't b fitted on and g^ws to me. 
And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 
Sweet! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and 

frankincense. 
Ah ! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints; I 

trust 
rhat I am whole, and dean, and meet for 

Heaven. 210 

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of 

God, 
Among you there, and let him presently 
Approach, and lean a ladder 011 the shaft, 
And climbing up into my airy home. 
Deliver me the blessed sacrament; 
For by the waruing of the Holy Ghost, 
I prophesy that I shall die to-uight, 
A quarter before twelve. 

But thou, O Lord, 
Aid all this foolish people; let them take 
Example, pattern; lead them to thy light 

THE TALKING OAK 

* An experiment meant to test the degree in 
which it is within the power of poetry to human- 
ize external nature ' Xl'cnnyson to Aubrey de 
Vere). 

Once more the gate behind me falls; 

Once more before my face 
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, 

That stand within the chaoe. 



Bevond the lodge the city li 
Beneath its drift of smoke 

And ah ! with what delightc 
I turn to yonder oak. 

For when my passion first be 
Ere that which in me bur 

The love that makes me thri 
Could hope itself retnm'd 

To yonder oak within the fie 
I spoke without restraint. 

And with a larger faith app< 
Than Papist unto Saint 

For oft I talk'd with him ap 
And told him of my cboici 

Until he plagiarized a heart, 
And answer'd with a voice 

Tho' what he whisper'd undi 
None else could understan 

I found him garrulously giv< 
A babbler iu the land. 

But since I heard him make 
Is many a weary hour; 

'T were well to question him 
If yet he keeps the power. 

Hail, hidden to the knees in 
Broad Oak of Sumner-cha 

Whose topmost branches cai 
The roofs of Sumner-placi 

Say thon, whereon I carved 
If ever maid or spouse, 

As fair as my Olivia, came 
To rest beneath thy bong^ 

• O Walter, I have shelter'd 

Whatever maiden grace 
The good old summers, year 
Made ripe in Sumner-chac 

' Old summers, when the mo 
And, issuing shorn and sle 

Would twist his girdle tight, 
The girls upon the cheek, 

* Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's- 

And numbered bead, and s 

Bluff Harry broke into the s 

And tom'd the cowls adriJ 



THE TALKING OAK 



83 



'And I haTe seen some score of those 
fmh faces that would thrive 

Wben his man-minded offset rose 
To chase the deer at five; 



50 



^Aad ill that from the town would stroll. 
Till that wild wind made work 

In which the gloomy brewer's soul 
Went by me, like a stork; 

'The slight she-slips of loyal blood, 

And others, passing praise. 
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud 

For puritanic stays. 60 

'And I have shadow'd many a group 

Of beauties that were bom 
In teacup-times of hood and hoop. 

Or while the patch was worn; 

'And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, 

About me leap'd and laugh*d 
The modish Cupid of the day, 

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft. 

* I swear — and else may insects prick 
Sach leaf into a gall ! — 70 

^Hiis girl, for whom your heart is sick, 
Is three times worth them all; 

'For those and theirs, by Nature's law, 

Have faded long ago; 
But in these latter springs I saw 

Tour own Olivia blow, 

' From when she gamboU'd on the greens 

A baby-germ, to when 
^ maiden blossoms of her teens 

Could number five from ten. 80 

'I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain — 
And hear me with thine ears — 

That, the' I circle in the grain 
Five hundred rings of years, 

^et, since I first could oast a shade, 

Did never creature pass 
So slightly, musically made. 

So light upon the grass; 

'For SB to fairies, that will flit 

To make the greensward fresh, 90 

I hold them exquisitely knit, 

Bot far too spare of flesh.' 



O, hide thy knotted knees in fern. 

And overlook the chace. 
And from thy topmost branch discern 

The roofs of Sumner-place I 

But thou, whereon I carved her name, 

That oft hast heard my vows. 
Declare when last Olivia came 

To sport beneath thy boughs. »x 

' O, vesterday, you know, the fair 

Was holdeu at the town; 
Her father left his good arm-chair. 

And rode his hunter down. 

' And with him Albert came on his, 

I look'd at him with joy; 
As cowslip unto ozlip is. 

So seems she to the boy. 

' An hour had past — and, sitting straight 
Within the low-wheerd chaise, tie 

Her mother trundled to the gate 
Behind the dappled grays. 

' But as for her, she staid at home. 

And on the roof she went, 
And down the way you used to come. 

She lool^d with discontent. 

' She left the novel half-uncut 

Upon the rosewood shelf; 
She left the new piano shut; 

She could not please herself. ix 

' Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, 

And livelier than a lark 
She sent her voice thro' all the holt 

Before her, and the park. 

' A light wind chased her on the wing, 

And in the chase grew wild, 
As dose as might be would he cling 

About the darling child; 

' But light as any wind that blows 
So fleetly did she stir, ijc 

The flower she touch'd on dipt and rose, 
And tum'd to look at her. 

' And here she came, and round me play'd. 

And sang to me the whole 
Of those three stanzas that yon made 

About my ** giant bole; ** 



84 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



* And in a fit of frolic mirth 

She stroTe to span my waist 
Alas ! I was so broad of girth, 

I could not be embraced. 140 

*I wish'd myself the fair young beech 

That here beside me stands, 
That round me, clasping each in each, 

She might hare lock'd her hands. 

*Tet seem'd the pressure thrice as sweet 

As woodbine's fragile hold. 
Or when I feel about my feet 

The berried briony fold.' 



150 



O, mufBe round thy knees with fern. 
And shadow Sumner-chace I 

Long may thy topmost branch discern 
The roofs of Sumner-place I 

But tell me, did she read the name 

I carved with many vows 
When last with throbbing heart I came 

To rest beneath thy boughs ? 



' O, yes, she wander'd round and round 

These kuotted knees of mine, 
And found, and kiss'd the name she found. 

And sweetly murmur'd thine^ 160 

* A teardrop trembled from its source, 

And down my surface crept. 
My sense of touch is something coarse. 
But I believe she wept. 

* Then flush'd her cheek with rosy light, 

She glanced across the plain. 
But not a creature was in sight; 
She kiss'd me once again. 

•Her kisses were so close and kind 
That, trust me on my word, 170 

Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 
But yet my sap was stirr'd; 

' And even into my inmost ring 

A pleasure I discern' d, 
Like those blind motions of the spring 

That show the year is tum'd. 

* Thrice-happy he that may caress 

The ringlet's waving balm — 
The cushions of whose touch may press 
The maiden's tender palm. 180 



* I, rooted here among the grorety 

But languidly adjust 
My vapid vegetable loves 

With anthers and with dust; 

< For ah I my friend, the days were h 

Whereof the poets talk. 
When that which breathes within the 

Could slip its bark and walk. 

' But could I, as in times foregone, 
From spray and branch and stem 

Have suck'd and gatber'd into one 
The life that spreads in them, 

' She had not found me so remiss; 

But lightly issuing thro', 
I would have paid her kiss for kisi^ 

With nsnxy thereto.' 

O, flourish high, with leafy towen^ 

And overlcmk the lea ! 
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, 

But leave thou mine to me. 

O, flourish, hidden deep in fern. 
Old oak, I love thee well ! 

A thousand thanks for what I learn 
And what remains to telL 

' 'T is little more: the day was warm; 

At last, tired out with play, 
She sank her head upon her arm 

And at my feet she lay. 

< Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eavei 

I breathed upon her eyes 
Thro' all the summer of my leaves 

A welcome miz'd with sighs. 

' I took the swarming sonnd of life -* 
The music from the town — 

The murmurs of the drum and fif% 
And lull'd them in my own. 

' Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, 

To light her shaded eve; 
A second flntter'd round her lip 

Like a golden butterfly; 

' A third would glimmer on her neck 
To make the necklace shine; 

Another slid, a sunny fleck. 
From head to ankle fine. 



LOVE AND DUTY 



8S 



*Tlieo dote and dark my arms I spread, 

And shadow'd all her rest — 
Dropt dews upon her golden head, 

Ask icorn in her hreast. 

'Bat m a pet she started np, 
And pluck'd it out, and drew 

Mj littb oakling from the cup. 
And flaog him in the dew. 

'And fet it was a graceful gift — 

I fdt s pang wiUiin 
As when 1 see the woodman lift 

His tie to slay my kin. 



'I shook him down because he was 

The finest on the tree. 
He lies beside thee on the grass. 

0, kias him once for me I 

'0, kin him twice and thrice for me. 

That have no lips to kiss I 
Fcff nerer yet was oak on lea 

Shall grow so fair as this.' 

Step deeper yet in herb and fern, 
Look tortber thro' the chace, 

Spread upward till thy boughs discern 
The front of Sumner-place. 

Tlis fmit of thine by Love is blest, 

That hot a moment lay 
Where fairer fruit of Love may rest 

Some happy future day. 



a3o 



240 



aso 



I kin it twice, I kiss it thrice, 
The warmth it thence shall win 

To riper life may magnetize 
^ baby-oak within. 

Bat thon, while kingdoms overset, 
Or lapse from hand to hand, 

^leaf shall never fail, nor yet 
Thine acorn in the land. 

Ml? never saw dismember thee, 
am wielded axe disjoint, 

lUt art the fairest-spoken tree 
From here to Lizard-point. 

0, rock upon thy towerv top 
An throats that gurgle sweet I 

AD starry culmination drop 
fialm-dews to bathe thy feet I 



a6o 



All grass of silky feather grow — 

And while he sinks or swells 270 

The full south-breeze around thee blow 
The sound of minster belb I 

The fat earth feed thy branchy root, 

That under deeply strikes I 
The northern morning o'er thee shooty 

High up, in silver spikes ! 

Nor ever lightning char thy grain. 

But, rolling as m sleep. 
Low thunders bring the mellow rain. 

That makes thee broad and deep 1 



ate 



And hear me swear a solemn oath, 

That only by thy side 
WUl I to Olive plight my troth. 

And gain her for my bride. 

And wh^n my marriage mom may fall. 
She, Dryad-like, shall wear 

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball 
In wreath about her hair. 

And I will work in prose and rhyme, 
And praise thee more in both 

Than bard has honor'd beech or lime, 
Or that Thessalian growth 

In which the swarthy ringdove sat, 
And mystic sentence spoke; 

And more than England honors that, 
Thy famous brother-oak, 

Wherein the younger Charles abode 
Till all the paths were dim. 

And far below the Roundhead rode, 
And humm'd a surly hymn. 



a9C 



300 



LOVE AND DUTY 

First printed in 1842, and afterwards altered 
but slightly. See Notes. 

Or love that never found his earthly close, 

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and break- 
ing hearts ? 

Or all the same as if he had not been ? 
Not so. Shall Error in the round of 
time 

Still father Truth ? O, shall the braggart 
shout 



S6 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



For some blind glimpse of freedom work 

itself 
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law. 
System, and empire ? Sin itself be found 
llie cloudy porch oft opening on the sun ? 
And only he, this wonder, dead, become to 
Mere highway dust ? or year by year alone 
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life. 
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him- 
self? 
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were 

aU, 
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart. 
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless 

days. 
The long mechanic pacings to and fro, 
The set gray life, and apathetic end. 
But am I not the nobler thro* thy love ? 
O, three times less unworthy! likewise 

thou 20 

Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy 

years. 
The sun will run his orbit, and the moon 
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will 

bring 
The drooping flower of knowledge changed 

to &uit 
Of wisdom. Wait; my faith is large in 

Time, 
And that which shapes it to some perfect 

end. 
Will some one say. Then why not ill for 

good ? 
Why took ye not your pastime ? To that 

man 
My work shall answer, since I knew the 

right 
And did it; for a man is not as Grod, 30 
But then most Godlike being most a 

man. — 
So let me think 'tis well for thee and 

me — 
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine 
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart 

so slow 
To feel it I For how hard it seem'd to 

me. 
When eyes, love-lang^d thro' half tears 

would dwell 
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine. 
Then not to dare to see ! when thy low 

voice, 
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep 
My own full-toned, — hold passioa in a 

leash, 40 




And not leap forth and &11 abmit tiiT ni 
And on thy bosom — deep desired reuef I 
Kain out the heavy mist of tear 

weig^'d 
Upon my brain, my senses, and mj aonl ! 
For Love himself took part affaimt ' ' 

self ^^ 

To warn us of!, and Duty loved of Lore 
O, this world's curse — beloved but 

— came 
Like Death betwixt thy dear emhraee 

mine. 
And crying, *Who is this? behold th^ 

bride,' 4gr' 

She push'd me from thee. 

If the sense is Imd 
To alien ears, I did not speak to these — 
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me. 
Hard is my doom and thine; thou knovwt 

it all. 
Could Love part thus ? was it not well to 

speak, 
To have spoken once ? It could not but 

be well. 
The slow sweet hours that bring ns all 

things good. 
The slow sad hours that bring ns all things 

ill. 
And aU good things from evil, bronght the 

night 
In which we sat together and alone, 
And to the want that hollow'd all the 

heart 60 

Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye. 
That bum'd upon its object thro' such tears 
As flow but once a life. 

The trance gave waj 
To those caresses, when a hundred times 
In that last kiss, which never was the last. 
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and 

died. 
Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the 

words 
That make a man feel strong in speaking 

truth; 
Till now the dark was worn, and ovei^ 

head 
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd 
In that brief night, the sununer night, that 

paused 71 

Among her stars to hear us, stars that hung 
Love-charm'd to listen; all the wheels of 

Time 
Spun round in station, but the end had 

come. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 



«7 



0, ten, like Uiom who clench their 

nenret to rush 
^m their diieolntion, we two rose, 
THn^dontng like an indiTidnal life — 
Ii «i blind ery of pneeion and of pain. 
Lib bitter aeetiaation eren to death, 
Cii|ht np the whole of love and ntter'd 

il, 80 

kd bade adiea tor ever. 

Live — yet live — 
SbiD iharpest pathos blight us, knowing 

life Mcdt for life is possible to will ? — 
Lift bappj; tend thy flowers; be tended by 
My blMsing! Should my Shadow cross 

tby thoughts 
Too ndly for their peace, remand it thou 
F« aimer hours to Memory's darkest 

hold, 
If sot to be forgotten — not at once — 
Kft aD forgotten. Should it cross thy 

dreams, 
0, Bight it come like one that looks con- 

tent, 90 

vHch <|aiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, 
Aid point thee forward to a distant light, 
Orisem to lift a burthen from thy heart 
Aid IcaTe thee freer, till thou wake re- 

fresh'd 
IWa when the first low matin-chirp hath 

grown 
FiO quire, and morning driyen her plow 

of pearl 
Par fnrrowing into light the mounded 

rack, 
Bcyoad the fair green field and eastern sea. 



THE GOLDEN YEAR 

Fifsl printed in 1846, in the fourth edition 
if the * roene,* and nnaltored except in one 
liiiiigi. See Notes. 

Wkll, you shall have that song which 

Leonard wrote: 
It was last summer on a tour in Wales. 
Old James was with me; we that day had 

been 
Cp Soowdoo; and I wish'd for Leonard 

there, 
Aad fooiid him in Llanberis. Then we 



B e t w e e n the lakes, and clamber'd half-way 
■P 



The counter side; and that same song of 

bis 
He told me, for I banter'd him and swore 
They said he lived shut up within himself, 
A tongue-tied poet in the feverous days 10 
That, setting toe how much before the hoWf 
Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, 

« Give, 
Cram us with all,' but count not me the 

herd! 
To which ' They call me what they will,' 

he said: 
'But I was bom too late; the fair new 

. forms, 
That float about the threshold of an age, 
Like truths of Science waiting to be 

caught — 
Catch me who can, and make the catcher 

crown'd — 
Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. 
But if you care indeed to listen, hear ao 
These measured words, my work of yester- 

mom: 

* We sleep and wake and sleep, hut all 

things move; 
The sun flics forward to his brother sun; 
The dark earth follows wheerd in her 

ellipse; 
And human things returning on themselves 
Move onward, leading up the golden year. 

* Ah ! tho' the times when some new 

thought can bud 
Are but as poets' seasons when they flower. 
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore 
Have ebb and flow couditioning their 

march, 30 

And slow and sure comes up the golden 

year; 

* When wealth no more shall rest in 

mounded heaps. 
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt 
In many streams to fatten lower lands. 
And light shall spread, and man be liker 

man 
Thro' all the season of the gulden year. 
'.Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be 

wrens? 
If all the world were falcons, what of that ? 
The wonder of the eagle were the less. 
But he not less the eagle. Happy days 40 
Roll onward, leading up the golden year. 

* Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the 

Press; 
Fly happv with the mission of the Cross; 
Knit lan({ to land, and blowing havenward 



88 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



With .silks, and fruits, and spices, dear of 

toll, 
Enrioh the markets of the s^olden year. 
*But we grow old. Ah! when shall all 

men's g^od 
Be each man's rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land, 49 
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea. 
Thro* all the circle of the eolden year ? ' 
Thus far he flow'd, and ended; where- 
upon 
* Ah, follj I ' in mimic cadence answer'd 

James — 
' Ah, follj ! for it lies so for away. 
Not in our time, nor in our children's time, 
'T is like the second world to us that live; 
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on 

heaven 
As on this vision of the eolden year.' 
With that he struck his staff against the 

rocks 
And broke it, — James, — you know him, 

— old, but full 60 

Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet. 
And like an oaken stock in winter woods, 
O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis; 
Then added, all in heat: 

" What stuff is this ! 
Old writers pushed the happy season back, — 
The more fools they, — we forward; dream- 
ers both — 
Tou most, that, in an age when every hour 
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death. 
Live on, Grod love us, as if the seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon the teeming harvest, should not 

plunge 70 

His hand into the bag; but well I know 
Timt unto him who works, and feels he 

works, 
This same grand year is ever at the doors.' 
He spoke; and, high above, I heard them 

blast 
The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo 

flap 
And buffet round the hills, from bluff to 

bluff. 

ULYSSES 

First printed in 1842, and unaltered. 

It little profits that an idle king. 
By this still hearth, among these barren 
crags, 



Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 

dole 
Unequal laws unto a savage race, 
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know 

not me. 
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink 
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd 
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with 

those 
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and 

when 
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades n 
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; 
For always roaming with a hungry heart 
Much have I seen and known, — cities ol 

men 
And manners, climates, councils, govern- 
ments, 
Myself not least, but honor'd of them 

all,- 
And drunk delight of battle with my 

peers. 
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
I am a part of all that I have met; 
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
Gleams that untravell'd world whose mar- 
gin fades JO 
For ever and for ever when I move. 
How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
To rust unbumish*d, not to shine in use I 
As tho' to breathe were life ! Life piled 

on life 
Were all too little, and of one to me 
Little remains; but every hour is saved 
From that eternal silence, something more, 
A bringer of new things; and vile it were 
For some three suns to store and hoard 

myself, 
And this gray spirit yearning in desire 30 
To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 
Beyond the utmost bound of human 

thought. 
This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom 1 leave the sceptre and the 

isle, — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 49 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods. 
When I am gone. He works his work, I 

mine. 



TITHONUS 



89 



Tkrt hm tlie port; the Teisel paffs her 
Mil; 
Urn ^ooiB the dark, hroad seas. My 



Ml the! have toil'd, and wroaght, and 

thoaght with me, — 
Iktnw with a tnhe weleome took 
lb thnder and the simshiiie, and op- 



hm hearts, free foreheads, — yon and I 

are <4d; 
OH ife hath yet his honor and his toil. 50 
Dwtk doeea all; hut something ere the 

end, 
8oat work of nohle note, may yet he done, 
Kil sibeeoming men that, strove with 

Gods. 
TW lights hegin to twinkle from the rocks; 
Tk lonr day wanes; the slow moon climbs; 

the deep 
lf«Bi roond with many Yoices. Come, 

my friends. 
Tiiiot too late to seek a newer world. 
^Hk ofl^ and sitting well in order smite 
Tk wnding furrows; for my purpose 

TtMfl beyond the snnset, and the baths 60 

Of iO the western stars, until I die. 

U maj be that the gulfs will wash us 

down; 
Haiy be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
Aid MS the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
1W anidi la taken, much abides; and 

tho* 
Wt ne not now that strength which in old 

days 
Htied earth and heayen, that which we 

sre, we are,— 
Oh eqaal temper of heroic hearts, 
MmU weak by time and fate, but strong in 

win 
Is ilriTe, to seek, to find, and not to 

yiald. 70 



TITHONUS 

FInl priirtsd hi the * Comhill Magenne ' for 
■fciMij, 1800, aad afterwards ineloded in the 
• n — >. ^,^1^ • ^nme in 1864. See Notes. 



Tn woods deeay, the woods decay and 

601, 
Iht vapors weep their burthen to the 



Man comes and tills the field and lies be- 
neath. 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel rnimortalitv 
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A whito-haiT'd diadow rouuing Uke » 

dream 
The eyer-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming balls of 

mom. 10 

Alas I for this gray shadow, onoe a 

man- 
So glorious in his beauty and thy cboioe, 
Who madest him thy cboeen, that he 

seem*d 
To his great heart none other than a (jod 1 
1 Ask'd thee, ' Giye me immortality.' 
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a 

smile. 
Like wealthy men who care not how they 

giye. 
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 

their wills, 
And beat me down and marr*d and wasted 

me. 
And tho' they could not end me, left me 

maim'd » 

To dwell in presence of immortal youth. 
Immortal age beside immortal youth. 
And all I was in ashes. Can thy loye, 
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' eyen now, 
Cloee oyer us, the silyer star, thy guide. 
Shines in those tremulous eyes that till with 

tears 
To hear me ? Let me go; take back thy 

gift. 
Why should a man desire in any way 
To yary from the kindly race of men, 
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance so 
Where all should pause, as is most meet 

for all 7 
A soft aiir fans the cloud apart; there 

eomes 
A glimpse of that dark world where I was 

bom. 
Onoe more the old mysterious glimmer 

steals 
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoul- 
ders pure. 
And bosom oeating with a heart renew'd. 
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' th 

gloom. 
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close t 



90 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild 

team 
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 

arise, 40 

And shake the darkness from their loosen'd 

manes, 
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 
Lo 1 ever thus thou grovrest beautiful 
In silence, then before thine answer given 
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 

tears. 
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, 
In days far-off, ou that dark earth, be true 7 
' The Gods themselves cannot recall their 

gifts.' 
Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 

heart 50 

In days far-off, and with what other eyes 
I used to watch — if I be he that watch*d — 
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw 
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; 
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt 

my blood 
Glow with the glow that slowly crim3on*d. 

all 
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, 
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
warm 
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds 
Of April, and could hear the lips that 

kiss'd 60 

Whispering I knew not what of wild and 

sweet, 
Like that strange song I heard Apollo 

sing, 
While llion like a mist rose into towers. 

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East; 
How can my nature longer mix with thine 7 
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled 

feet 
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the 

steam 
Floats up from those dim fields about the 

homes 
Of happy men that have the power to 

die, 70 

And g^rassy barrows of the happier dead. 
Release me, and restore me to the ground. 
Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 

grave; 
Thon wilt renew thy beanty mom by mom, 
I earth in earth forget these empty courts, 
And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 



LOCKSLEY HALL 

First printed in 1842, and slightly altered in 
subsequent editions. See Notes. 

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as 

yet 'tis early mom; 
Leave me here, and when you want me, 

sound upon the bugle-horn. 

T is the place, and all around it, as of old, 

the curlews call. 
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying 

over Locksley Hall; 

Locksley Hall, that in the distance over- 
looks the sandy tracts, 

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into 
cataracts. 

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, 

ere 1 went to rest, 
Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 

to the west. 

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 

thro* the mellow shade. 
Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled in 

a silver braid. 



so 



Here about the beach I wander'd, nour- 
ishing a youth sublime 

With the fairy tales of science, and the 
long result of time; 

When the centuries behind me like a froii* 

ful land reposed; 
When I clung to all the present for the 

promise that it closed; 

When I dipt into the future far as human 

eye could see, 
Saw the vision of the world and all the 

wonder that would be. — 

In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon 
the robin's breast; 

In the spring the wanton lapwing gets him- 
self another crest; 

In the spring a livelier iris change on the 

bumish'd dove; 
In the spring a young man's fancy lightly 

turns to thoughts of love. 10 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



9x 



Tki hn e h e ek was pale and thinner than 
•boold be for one so joung, 

Aid hm tjt» on all mj motions with a 
aiate obsenrance bong. 

Aid I iaidt *Mj ooosin Amy, speak, and 

ipeak the truth to me, 
TmIL bs, eousin, all the current of my 

being sets to thee.' 



Oikr pallid eheek and forehead came a 

color and a light, 
Ai I ksve seen the rosy red flushing in the 

Bottbem night 

Aid Aft tnm'd — her bosom shaken with 
s sadden storm of sighs — 

Al tke spirit deeply dawning in the dark 
ol baiel eyes — 

Si^iig^ *I bare hid my feelings, fearing 
tksT should do me wrong; ' 

Ssyiil, * Uost thou love me, cousin ? * weep- 
ing, * I haTO loTcd thee long.' 30 

Uit tsok up the glass of Time, and tum'd 

it in his glowing hands; 
Iwy OKinient, lightly shaken, ran itself 

ia golden sands. 

I'vs took up the harp of Life, and smote 
on all the cboros with might; 

Sails the chord of Self, that, trembling, 
post in music out of sight. 

Ibya morning on the moorland did we 

bear the copses ring, 
Asi ber whisper throng'd my pulses with 

the fulness c^ the spring. 

^^Uf ta erening by the waters did we 

wateh the stately ships, 
Aid ov spirits rush'd together at the 

tnofhing of the lips. 

My eoosin, shallow - hearted ! O my 

Amy, mine no more ! 

tts dr»sry, dreary moorland I O the 

barren, barren shore 1 40 

Fihsr than all fancy fathoms, falser than 

all sones bare sung, 
hppst to a uUber's thr^it, and serrile to 

a shrewish tongue f 



Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having 
known me — to decline 

On a range of lower feelings and a nar- 
rower heart than mine I 

Tet it shaU be; thou shalt lower to his level 

day by da jr. 
What is nne within thee growing coarse tc 

sympathise with clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is; thou art 

mated with a clown. 
And the g^ssness of bis nature will haye 

weight to drag tbee down. 

He will hold thee, when his passion shall 
have spent its novel force. 

Something better than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. $«. 

What is this? his eves are heavy; think 
not they are glazed with wine. 

Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, take 
his hand in thine. 

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 

is overwrought; 
Soothe him with thy finer fancies, toach 

him with thy lighter thought 

He will answer to the purpose, easy things 

to understand — 
Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I 

slew thee with my hand 1 

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from 

the heart's disgrace, 
Roird in one another's arms, and silent in 

a last embrace. 

Cursed be the social wants that sin against 

the strength of youth I 
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from 

the living truth I 60 

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 

honest Nature's rule I 
Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd 

forehead of the fool 1 

Well — 't is well that I should Unster I -* 
Hadst thou less unworthy proved — 

Would to God — for I had loved thee more 
than ever wife ws^ loved. 



93 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Am I macU that I should cherish that 
which hears but bitter fruit ? 

I will pluck it from mj bosom, tho' my 
heart be at the root. 

Never, tho' my mortal summers to such 
length of years should come 

As the many-winter'd crow that leads the 
clanging rookery home. 

Where is comfort ? in division of the rec- 
ords of the mind ? 

Can I part her from herself, and Iotc her, 
as I knew her, kind ? 70 

X remember one that perish*d; sweetly did 

she speak and move; 
Such a one do I remember, whom to look 

at was to love. 

Can I think of her as dead, and love her 

for the love she bore ? 
No — she never loved me truly; love is 

love for evermore. 

Comfort? comfort scom'd of devils I this 

is truth the poet sings. 
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- 

beritfg happier things. 

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest 
thy heart be put to proof. 

In the dead unhappy ni^ht, and when the 
rain is on the roo£ 

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou 

art staring at the wall. 
Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and 

the shadows rise and fall. 80 

Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing 

to his drunken sleep. 
To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the 

tears that thou wiU weep. 

Thou shalt hear the ' Never, never,' whis- 
per'd by the phantom years. 

And a song from out the distance in the 
ringing of thine ears; 

And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient 

kindness on thy pain. 
Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; c^t 

thee to thy rest again. 



r 



Nay, but Nature brings thee sola 
tender voice wiU cry. 

T is a purer life than thme, a lip 
thy trouble dry. 

Baby lips will laugh me down; n 
rival brings thee rest. 

Baby fingers, waxen touches, press 
the mother's breast. 

O, the child too clothes the fathe 
deamess not his due. 

Half is thine and half is his; it 
worthy of the twa 

O, I see thee old and formal, fitte 

petty part. 
With a little hoard of maxims p 

down a daughter's heart. 

' They were dangerous guides the 
— she herself was not exem 

Truly, she herself had suffer'd ' — ] 
thy self-contempt 1 

Overlive it — lower yet — be happy 
fore should I care ? 

I myself must mix with actios 
wither by despair. 

What is that which I should turn 1 
ing upon days like these ? 

Every door is barr'd with gold, ai 
but to golden keys. 

Every gate is throng'd with suiton 

markets ovei^ow. 
I have but an angry fancy; whal 

which I should do ? 

I had been content to perish, fallin 

foeman's ground, 
When the ranks are roll'd in va 

the winds are laid with soui 

But the jingling of the guinea h 
hurt that Honor feels. 

And the nations do but murmur, sn 
each other's heels. 

Can I but relive in sadness ? I ^ 

that earlier page. 
Hide me from mv deep emotion 

wondrous Mother- Age f 



LOCKSLEY HALL 



93 



MjbflM feel the wild paltttion that I felt 

before the strife, 
Wki I beard mj davs before me, and the 

tamnlt of my life; 



no 



TwiiBg for the large eicitement that the 

eoaung jeart would yield, 
iMwbcartfBi as a boy when first he leaves 

his father's field, 

Aid St night along the dusky highwsy 

sear and nearer drawn, 
Sm n bearen the li^ht of London flaring 
a dreary dawn; 



iid kk spirit leaps within him to be gone 

before him then, 
UidcrBcath the light he looks at, in among 

the throngs of men; 

MM,n7 brothers, men the workers, eyer 

reaping something new; 
Tbt vkich they have oone but earnest of 

the things that they shall do. 

^ I dipt into the future, far as human eye 

eonld see, 
Siv tbe Visioo of the world, and all the 

wooder that would be; iw 

Sivtbt heavens fill with eommeroe, argo- 

aes of magic sails, 
RItti of the purple twilight, dropping 

dowB witii costly bales; 

Bwd the hearens fill with shouting, and 
there rain'd a ghastly dew 

nsa the nations' airy navies grappling in 
the eentral blue; 

nr sIsQg the world-wide whisper of the 

Vkh the standards of the peoples plung- 
ing thro' the thunder-storm; 

& te war-drum throbb'd no longer, and 
the battle-flags were furl'd 

htts Pkrliament of man, the Federation 
of the world. 

Ab« the eoromoo sense of most shall hold 

a fretful realm in awe, 
Aid the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in 
~ law. 130 



I 



So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping 

thro' me left me dry. 
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me 

with the jaundiced eye; 

Eye, to which all order festers, all things 

here are out of joint. 
Science moyes, but slowly, slowly, creeping 

on from point to point; 

Slowly oomes a hungry people, as a lion, 

creeping nigher. 
Glares at one Uiat nods and winks behind « 

slowly-dying fire. 

Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increas- 
ing purpose runs. 

And the thoughts of men are widen'd with 
the process of the suns. 

What is that to him that reaps not harrest 

of his youthful joys, 
Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for 

ever like a boy's ? 140 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

I lineer on the shore. 
And the individual withers, and the world 

is more and more. 

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and 

he bears a laden breast. 
Full of sad experience, moving toward the 

stillness of his rest. 

Hark, my merry comrades call me, sound- 
ing on the buele-hom. 

They to whom my Foolish passion were a 
target for Uieir scorn. 

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such 

a moulder'd string ? 
I am shamed thro' all my nature to have 

loved so slight a thmg. 

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! 

woman's pleasure, woman's nain — 
Nature made them blinder motions ooonded 

in a shallower brain. ijo 

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy 
passions, match'd with mine, 

Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and ai 
water unto wine — 



94 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. 

Ah, for some retreat 
Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my 

life began to beat, 

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my 

father evil-starr'd; — 
I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish 

nncle's ward. 

Or to burst all links of habit — there to 

wander far away, 
On from island uoto island at the gateways 

of the day. 

Larger constellations burning, mellow 
moons and happy skies, 

Breadths of tropic shade and palms in dus- 
ter, knots of Paradise. 160 

Never come3 the trader, never floats an 

European flag. 
Slides the bird o*er lustrous woodland, 

swings the trailer from the crag; 

Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs 

the heavy-fruited tree — 
Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple 

spheres of sea. 

There methinks would be enjoyment more 
than in this march of mind, 

In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
thoughts that shake mankind. 

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall 
have scope and breathing space; 

I will take some savage woman, she shall 
rear my dusky race. 

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, 

and they shall run. 
Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl 

their lances in the sun; 170 

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the 
rainbows of the brooks, 

Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis- 
erable books — 

Fool, again the dream, the fancy 1 bat I 
know my words are wild. 



But I count the ^taj barbarian lower thaa 
the Christian child. 

I, to herd with narrow foreheads, Tamnt of 

our glorious gains. 
Like a beast with k>wer pleasares, like t 

beast with lower pains I 

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me 

were sun or dime 7 
I the heir of all the ages, in the foiemoec 

files of time — 

I that rather held it better men shoald per- 
ish one by one. 

Than that earth should stand at gaze like 
Joshua's moon in Ajalon 1 180 

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, 

forward let us range. 
Let the great world spin for ever down the 

ringing grooves of qhange. 

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep 

into the younger day ; 
Better fifty years cS Europe than a cyde 

of Cathay. 

Mother-Ag^, — for mine I knew not, — hdp 

me as when life begun; 
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the 

lightnings, weigh the sun. 

O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 

hath not set. 
Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all 

my fancy yet. 

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell 

to Locksley HaJl ! 
Now for me the woods may wither, now for 

me the roof-tree fall. 190 

Comes a vapor from the margin, \blaokeii- 

ing over heath and holt. 
Cramming all the blast before it, in its 

breast a thunderbolt. 

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or 

hail, or fire or snow; 
Foi the mighty wind arises, roaring 

ward, and I go 



GODIVA 



95 



GODIVA 
Ibt piblklMd in 1842, when line &1 lud 



/ Wiinpfar CAe tram at Coventry; 

lkm§ wik §room» and portert en the bridge, 

U wtkk the tkrm tall qiirea; wul there I 

Aaped 
Tki ckf$ ancient legend into this : — 

Not obI J w% the Utest seed of Time, 
8ev HMB, that in the fljing of a wheel 
Ciy down the past, not onlj we, that 

prate 
Of rignts and wroogs, have loved the peo- 
ple well, 
iid lotthed to see them oTertax'd; bat 

ifae 9 

Did Boie, and nnderwent, and overcame, 
1W voman of a thousand summers back, 
Godift, wife to that grim £arl, who ruled 
Is Coventry; for when he laid a tax 
Cpot kis town, and all the mothers 

brought 
IWir diildreo, clamoring, ' If we pay, we 

ttanre!' 
Skt Hofht her lord, and found him, where 

bestrode 
Abaet the hall, among his dogs, alone, 
Be beard a foot before him, and his hair 
A jud behind. She told him of their 



Aid pray'd him, ' If they pay this tax, they 
stanre/ *> 

■V^bieat he stared, replying, half-amazed, 
'Toe woold not let your little finger ache 
Fir leeh as Ikeee t ^^ • But I would die/ 

said she. 
Be lnfh*d, and swore by Peter and by 

Pkul, 
TWe fiUip'd at the diamond in her ear: 
•0;ay. ay. ay, you talkl' — « Alas !' she 



'Bet prove me what it is I would not do.' 
Aad from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, 
He aaswer'd, *Ride you naked thro' the 

town, ag 

Aad 1 repeal it;' and nodding, as in scorn, 
Be parted, wiUi great strides among his 

dogs. 
So left alone, the passions of her mind, 
As wiode from all the compass shift and 

blow. 
Mad e war vpon each other for an hour, 
TBIpifywQO. She leot a henld f orth« 



And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet. 

all 
The hard condition, but that she would 

loose 
The people; therefore, as they loved her 

well, 
From then till noon no foot should paee 

the street, 39 

No eye look down, she passing, but that all 
Should keep within, door shut, and window 

barr'd. 
Then fled she to her inmost bower, and 

there 
Undasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt. 
The gnm Earl's gift; but ever at a breath 
She Unger'd, looking like a summer moon 
Half-dipt in cloud. Anon she shook her 

head, 
And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her 

knee; 
Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair 
Stole on; and like a creeping sunbeam slid 
From pillar unto pillar, until she reach 'd $> 
The gateway; there she found her palfrey 

trapt 
In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
Then she rode forth, clothed on with 

chastity. 
The deep air listen'd round her as she 

rode, 
And all the low wind hardly breathed for 

fear. 
The little wide-moutb'd heads npon the 

spout 
Had cunning eyes to see; the barking cur 
Made her cheek flame; her palfrey's foot- 
fall shot 
Light horrors thro' her pulses; the blind 

walls 
Were full of chinks and holes; and over- 
head to 
Fantastic gables, crowding, stared; but she 
Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw 
The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the 

field 
Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 

wall. 
Then she rode back, clothed on with 

chastity. 
And one low churl, compact of thankleti 

earth. 
The fatal byword of all rears to come. 
Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
Peep'd — but his eyes, before they had 

their will. 



96 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Were shriTell'd into darkneiw in hb head. 

And dropt before him. So the Powers, 
who wait 7( 

On noble deeds, oancell'd a sense misused; 

And she, that knew not, pass'd; and all at 
once. 

With twelve great shoclu of sound, the 
shameless noon 

Was dash'd and hammer'd from a hun- 
dred towers. 

One after one; but eren then she niu'd 

Her bower, whence reissuing, rooed and 
crown'd. 

To meet ber lord, she took the tax away 

And built herself an cTcrlasting name. 



THE DAY-DREAM 

Tlie part of this poem entitled ' The Sleep- 
ing Beaatj ' was printed in 1830 ; the rest was 
added in 1&42, ana a few alterations have since 
been made. 

PROLOGUE 

O Ladt Flora, let me speak; 

A pleasant hour has passed away 
While, dreaming on your damask cheek, 

The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 
As by the lattice you reclined, 

I went thro' many wayward moods 
To see you dreaming — and, behind, 

A summer crisp with shining woods. 
And I too dream d, until at last 

Across my fancy, brooding warm, lo 

The reflex of a legend past, 

And loosely settled into form. 
And would you have the thought I had. 

And see the yision that I saw, 
Then take the broidery-frame, and add 

A crimson to the quaint macaw. 
And I will tell it. Turn your face, 

Nor look with that too-earnest eye — 
The rhymes are dazzled from their place 

And order'd words asunder fly. ao 



THE SLEEPING PALACE 



The varying year with blade and sheaf 
Cloth^ and reclothes the happy plains. 

Here rests the sap within the leaf. 
Here stays the blood along the reins. 



Faint shadows, vapors lightly eorl'd. 
Faint murmurs from ue meadows oa 

Like hints and echoes of the world 
To spirits folded in the womb. 

n 

Soft lustre bathes the range of oms 

On eyery slanting terrace-lawn. 
The fountain to his place returns 

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
Here droops the banner on the tower. 

On the hall-hearths the festal firesi 
The peacock in his laurel bower. 

The parrot in his gilded wirea. 

ni 

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs 

In these, in those the life is stay'd. 
The mantles from the golden pegs 

Droop sleepily; no sound is madey 
Not even of a gnat that sings. 

More like a picture seemeth all 
Than those old portraits of old kings. 

That watch the sleepers from the wal 

IV 

Here sits the butler with a flask 

Between his knees, half-drain'd; i 
there 
The wrinkled steward at his task. 

The maid-of-honor blooming faiir. 
The page has caught her hand in his; 

Her lips are sever'd as to speak; 
His own are pouted to a kiss; 

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 



Till all the hundred summers pass. 

The beams that thro' the onel shine 
Make prisms in every carven glass 

And beaker brimmM with noble wine 
Each baron at the banquet sleeps. 

Grave faces gather'd in a ring. 
His state the king reposing keeps. 

He must have been a jovial king. 

VI 

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 

At distance like a little wood; 
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. 

And grapes with bunches red as blooc 
All creeping plants, a wall of green 

Close-matted, bur and brake and brie 
And glimpsing over these, just seen, 

Hi^ op, the topmost palace spire- 



THE DAY-DREAM 



97 



vn 

WhfD win the himdied sommen die, 

And tlMmfflit and time be bom again, 70 
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, 

firing troth that sways vxe soul of 
men? 
Hsn ill things in their place remain, 

Ai ill were order'd, ages since. 
Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, 

And bring the fated fairy Prince. 



THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 



YiAE after year unto her feet, 

She Ijing on her couch alone, 
Aenn the purple coverlet 79 

The miiaen's jet-black hair has grown, 
Ob either side her tranced form 

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl; 
The dambrous light is rich and warm. 

And moves not on the rounded curl. 

II 

The iQk star-broider'd coverlid 

Unto her limbs itself doth mould 
I'ttgiudly ever; and, amid 

Her foil black ringlets downward roll'd, 
61m forth each somy-shadow'd arm 

With bracelets of the diamond bright. 90 
Her eonstant beauty doth inform 

StiUneis with love, and day with light. 



Ill 

9ie sleeps; her breathings are not heard 

In palace chambers far apart. 
Tlie fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 

^Hnt ue upon her charmed heart. 
She sleeps; on either hand ups wells 

The gold-f rinsed pillow lightly prest; 
^ deeps, nor oreams, but ever dwells 

A perfect form in perfect rest. 



100 



THE ARRIVAL 



Aix predons things, discover'd late, 
To those that seek them issue forth; 

For loTe in sequel works with fate, 
And draws the veil from hidden worth. 

He travels far from other skies — 
Hii mantle glitters on the rocks — 



no 



A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes. 
And lighter-footed than the fox. 

II 

The bodies and the bones of those 

That strove in other days to pass 
Are withered in the thorny close. 

Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. 
He ^Lzes on the silent dead: 

' They perish'd in their daring deeds.* 
Thisproverb flashes thro' his head, 

' Tne many fail, the one succeeds.' 

Ill 

He comes, scarce knowine what he seeks; 

He br^tks the hedge; ne enters there; 
The color flies into his cheeks; 

He trusts to light on something fair; ijo 
For all his life the charm did talk 

About his path, and hover near 
With words of promise in his walk, 

And whisper'd voices at his ear. 

IV 

More close and close his footsteps wind; 

The Maeio Music in his heart. 
Beats quick and quicker, till he find 

The quiet chamber far apart 
His spirit flutters like a lane. 

He stoops — to kiss her — on hb knee. 
' Love, if thy tresses be so dark, 131 

How dark those hidden eyes must be 1 ' 



THE REVIVAL 



A TOUCH, a kiss I the charm was snapt. 

There rose a noise of striking clocks. 
And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 

And barkinff dogs, and crowing cooks; 
A fuller light illumined all, 

A breeze thro' all the garden swept, 
A sudden hubbub shook the hall, 

And sixty feet the fountain leapt 



140 



II 



The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd* 
The fire shot up, the martin flew, 

The parrot scream 'd, the peacock squall'd, 
The maid and page renew'd their strife, 

The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt, 
And all the long-pent stream of life 

Dash'd downward in a cataract 



98 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



m 

And last with these the king awoke. 

And in his ohair himself uprear'd, x$o 
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and 
spoke, 

' Bj holy rood, a royal beard ! 
How say yon ? we have slept, my lords. 

My beud has grown into my lap.' 
The barons swore, with many words^ 

'Twas bat an after-dinner's m^. 

IV 

'Eeurdy,' retnm'd the king, 'bat still 

My jcnnts are somewhat stiff or so. 
My lord, and shall we pass the bill 

I mention'd half an boar ago ? ' ite 

The ohanoellor, sedate and Tain, 

In coarteoas words retom'd reply. 
Bat dallied with his golden chain, 

And, smiling, pat the qaestion by. 



THE DEPARTURE 



AlTD on her loYer's arm she leant. 

And round her waist she felt it fold. 
And far across the hills they went 

In that new world which is the old; 
Across the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim, 170 

And deep into the dying day 

The happy princess followed him. 

II 

*I'd sleep another hundred years, 

O love, for such another kiss; ' 
'O, wake for ever, love,' she hears; 

' O love, 't was such as this and this.* 
And o'er them many a sliding star 

And many a merry wind was borne. 
And, stream'd thro' many a golden bar. 

The twilight melted into morn. t8o 

III 

'0 eyes long laid in happy sleep ! ' 

'O happy sleep, that lightly fled I' 
* O happ> kiss, that woke thy sleep ! ' 

' O love, thy kiss would wake the dead ! ' 
And o'er them many a flowing range 

Of vapor buoy'd the crescent-bark. 
And, rapt thro' many a rosy change, 

The twilight died into the dark. 



IV 

^ A hundred summers I can it be ? 

And whither goest thou, tell me whef 
' O, seek my facer's court with me. 

For there are greater wonders there.' 
And o'er the hills, and far away 

Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
Beyond the night, across the day. 

Thro' all the world ahe f ollow'd him. 



MORAL 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 

And if you flud no moral there^ 
Go, look in any glass and say. 

What moral is in being fair. 
O, to what uses shall we put 

The wildweed-flower that simply bkn 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose ? 

n 

But any man that walks the mead. 

In bud or blade or bloom, may find* 
According as his humors lead, 

A meaning suited to his mind. 
And liberal applications lie 

In Art like Nature, dearest friend; 
So 't were to cramp its use if I 

Should hook it to some useful end. 



L'ENVOI 



Ton shake your head. A random strii 

Your finer female sense offends. 
Well — were it not a pleasant thing 

To fall asleep with all one's friends; 
T<)pass with all our social ties 

To silence from the paths of men. 
And every hundred years to rise 

And learn the world, and sleep again; 
To sleep thro' terms of mighty wars. 

And wake on science g^own to more. 
On secrets of the brain, the stars. 

As wild as aught of fairy lore; 
And all that else the years will show. 

The Poet-forms of stronger hourSy 
The vast Republics that may grow. 

The Federations and the Powen: 



AMPHION 



99 



Tttviie foroes taking birth 

In diTen seasons, divers climes ? 
Forwe are Ancients of the earth, 

And in the morning of the times. 



a3o 



U 

So deeping, so aroused from sleep 
Thio sonny decads new and strange, 

Orgaj qoinqnenniads, woald we reap 
'&d flower and quintessence of change. 

Ill 

Ab, yet woold I — and would I might I 

So much your eyes my fancy take — 
Be still the first to leap to light 

That I might kiss those eyes awake I 240 
FoF) am I right, or am I wrong, 

To choose your own you did not care; 
loa'd have my moral from the song, 

And I will take my pleasure there; 
And, am I right or am I wrong, 

Mj fancy, ranging thro' and thro\ 
To search a meaning for the song, 

Perforce will still revert to you. 
Nor finds a closer truth than this 

AU-graoeful head, so richly curi'd, ty> 
And evermore a costly kiss 

The prelude to some brighter world. 

IV 

For since the time when Adam first 

Fmbraced his Eve in happy hour, 
And every bird of Eden burst 

In carol, every bud to flower, 
What eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes, 

What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd ? 
Where on the double rosebud droops 

The fulness of the pensive mind ; 360 

Which, all too dearly self-involved, 

7et sleeps a dreamless sleep to me, — 
A sleep by kisses undissolved, 

That lets thee neither hear nor see: 
^t break it. In the name of wife, 

And in the rights that name may give. 
Are clasped the moral of thy life. 

And that for which I care to live. 



EPILOGUE 



So, Lady Flora, take my lay. 
And if yon find a meaning there, 

0, whisper to your glass, and say, 
' What wonder if he thinks me fair ? ' 

What wonder I was all unwise. 
To shape the song for your delight 



270 



like long-tail'd birds of Paradise 
That m>at thro' heaven, and cannot light? 

Or old-world trains, upheld at court 
By Cupid-boys of blooming hue — 

But take it — earnest wed with sport, 
And either sacred unto you. aSo 



AMPHION 

First printed in 1842, and altered but 
slightly. 

My father left a park to me, 

But it is wild and barren, 
A garden too with scarce a tree. 

And waster than a warren; 
Yet say the neighbors when they call 

It is not bad but good land. 
And in it is the germ of all 

That grows within the woodland. 



O, had I lived when song was great 

In days of old Amphion, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

Nor cared for seed or scion I 
And had I lived when song was great. 

And legs of trees were limber, 
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate. 

And fiddled in the timber 1 



10 



JO 



'T is said he had a tuneful tongue^ 

Such happy intonation, 
Wherever he sat down and sung 

He left a small plantation; 
Wherever in a lonely g^ve 

He set up his forlorn pipes. 
The gouty oak began to move. 

And flounder into hornpipes. 



The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, 

And, as tradition teaches. 
Young ashes pirouetted down 

Coquetting with young beeches; 
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath 

Ran forward to his rhyming, 30 

And from the valleys underneath 

Came little copses climbing. 

The linden broke her ranks and rent 
The woodbine wreaths that bind her, 

And down the middle, buzz ! she went 
With all her bees behind her; 

The poplars, in long order due, 
With cypress promenaded^ 



TOO 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



ne shoek-head willows two and two 
By riven gallopaded. 40 

Came wet-ehod alder from the wave. 

Came yews, a dismal coterie; 
Each plaok'd his one foot from the grave, 

Pooasetting with a sloe-tree; 
Old elms came breaking from the vine. 

The vine stream'd out to follow, 
And, sweating rosin, plamp'd the pine 

Prom many a dondy hoOow. 

^nd was n't it a sight to see, 

When, ere his song was ended, 50 

Like some great landslip, tree by tree. 

The conutiT-side descended; 
And shepheras from the mountain-eaves 

Look'a down, half-pleased, half-fright- 
en'd. 
As dash'd about the drunken leaves 

The random sunshine lightened ? 

O, Nature first was fresh to men. 

And wanton without measure; 
So youthful and so flexile then, 

You moved her at your pleasure. 60 

Twang out, my fiddle 1 shake the twigs I 

And make her dance attendance; 
Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs. 

And scirrhous roots and tendons I 

T is vain I in such a brassv age 

I could not move a thistle; 
The very sparrows in the hedge 

Scarce answer to my whistle; 
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick 

With strumming and with scraping, 70 
A jackass heehaws from the rick. 

The passive oxen gaping. 

But what is that I hear ? a sound 

Like sleepy counsel pleading; 
O Lord I — 't is in my neighbor's ground, 

The modem Muses reading. 
They read Botanic Treatises, 

And Works on Grardening thro' there, 
And Methods of Transplanting Trees 

To look as if they g^w there. &> 

The wither'd Misses ! how they prose 
O'er books of travell'd seamen. 

And show you slips of all that grows 
From England to Van Diemen. 

They read in arbors dipt and cut, 
A^ alleys, faded pUuses, 



By squares of tropic summer i 
And warm'd in crystal casec 

But these, tho' fed with carefii 

Are ndther green nor sappy 
Half-oonsdous of the gardeu-e 

The spindlings look unhapp; 
Better to me the meanest weec 

That blows upon its mounta 
The vilest herb that runs to se 

Beside its native fountain. 

And I must work thro' montlu 

And years of cultivation. 
Upon my proper patch of soil 

To grow my own plantation. 
1 11 ti^Lc the showers as they i 

I will not vex my bosom; 
Enough if at the end of all 

A little garden blossom. 

SAINT AGNES' EV 

First pnUiahed m ' The Keepsaki 
and reprinted in 1842. Until 18S 



* d 



Deep on the convent-roof the 1 

Are sparkling to the moon; 
My breath to heaven like vapo 

May my soul follow soon 1 
The shadows of the convent-to 

Slant down the snowy sward 
Still creeping with the creepin 

That lead me to my Lord. 
Make Thou my spirit pure and 

As are the frosty skies. 
Or this first snowdrop of the y 

That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soil'd 

To yonder shining ground: 
As this pale taper's earthly sp 

To yonder argent round; 
So shows my soul before the L 

My spirit before Thee; 
So in mU earthly boase I am 

To that I hope to be. 
Break up the heavens, O Lord 

Thro' all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glitterii 

In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden door 
The flashes come and go; 



SIR GALAHAD 



xoi 



Afl bM?6B Imnts ber stanr floors, 

And itrowB her lights below, 
Ajid deepens cm and up ! the gates 

BoU bsokt and far within 
For me the Heayenl j Bridegroom waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 
The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide — 
A light upon the sinning sea — 

lie Bridegroom with his bride 1 

SIR GALAHAD 
Rnt nrinted in 1842. In line 15 * till ' was 

Mt good blade eaires the casqnes of men, 

Mj toDgh lance thmsteth sure, 
Mt strength is as the strength of ten, 

Beeaofle my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands siiiver on the steel, 
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 

The horae and rider reel; 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, lo 
Ferfame and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

Howaweet are looks that ladies bend 

Oil whom their f ayors fall I 
For them I battle till the end. 

To aare from shame and thrall; 
fiot all my heart is drawn aboye, 

% knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine; 
I oerer felt the kiss of loye. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. ao 

More boonteons aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports moye and thrill; 
°<> ktep I fair thro' faith and prayer 

A Tirgin heart in work and will. 

"^ down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
^^tween dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns. 
•^ by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hew a yoice, but none are there; 30 
">» stalls are yoid, the doors are wide. 

The tapers burning fair, 
''ur gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 

The silTer yessels sparkle clean, 
^ shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn duuuts resound between. 



40 



Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
' I find a magic bsirk. 
I leap on board; no helmsman steers; 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful lif ht I 

Three angels bear the Hmy Grail; 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision 1 blood of God ! 

My spirit beats ber mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And starlike mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charter borne 

Thro' dreaming towns I go, 50 

The cock crows ere the Christmas mom, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads. 

And, ringing, springs from brand and 
mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields, te 

A maiden kniebt — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel's hand. 

This mortal armor that I wear, 70 

This weight and size, this heart and eyes^ 

Are tonch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro' the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 

Wings flutter, voices hover dear: 
' O just and faithful knight of God I 

Ride on f the prize is near.' 80 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-arm'd I ride, wbate'er betide, 

Unta I find the Holy GraiL 



I02 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



EDWARD GRAY 

Fiat printed in 1842, and unaltered. 

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town 

Met me walking on yonder way; 
*And have you lost your heart?' she 
said; 
'And are yoo married yet, Edward 
Gray?' 

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me; 
Bitterly weeping I tum'd away: 

* Sweet Enmia Moreland, love no more 

Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. 

* Ellen Adair she loved me well. 

Against her father's and mother's will; 
To-day I sat for an hour and wept 
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hilL 

* Shy she was, and I thought her cold, 

Tnought her proud, and fled over the 
sea; 
Fill'd I was with folly and spite. 

When Ellen Adair was dying for me. 

^ Cruel, cruel the words I said t 
Cruelly came they back to-day: 

•* You 're too slight and fickle," I said, 
** To trouble the heart of Edward Gray." 

'There I put my face in the grass — 
Whisper'd, ''Listen to my despair; 

I repent me of all I did; 

Speak a little, EUen Adair ! " 

'^Then I took a pencil, and wrote 

On the mossy stone, as I lay, 
••Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; 

And here the heart of Edward Gray 1 " 

* Love may come, and love may go, 

And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree; 
But I will love no more, no more, 
Till Ellen Adair come back to me. 

< Bitterly wept I over the stone; 

Bitterly weeping I tum'd away. 
There lies the body of Ellen Adair t 

Ami there the heart of Edwaxd Gray 1 ' 



WILL WATERPROOF'S I 
MONOLOGUE 

MADE AT THE COCK 

Plrst printed in 1842, and aligl 
since. See Notes. 

PLUMP head-waiter at The i 
To which I most resort, 

How goes the time ? 'T is fi^ 
Gro fetch a pint of port; 

But let it not oe such as that 
Ton set before chance-come 

But such whose father-grape | 
On Lusitanian summers. 

No vain libation to the Muse, 

But may she still be kind. 
And whisper lovely words, anc 

Her influence on the mind. 
To make me write my random 

Ere they be half-forgotten; 
Nor add and alter, many timei 

Till all be ripe and rotten. 

1 pledge her, and she comes ai 
Her laurel in the wine, 

And lays it thrice upon my lip 
These favor'd lips of mine; 

Until the charm have power U 
New life-blood warm the bo 

And barren commonplaces bre 
In full and kindly blossom. 

I pledgee her silent at the boar 

Her g^dual fingers steal 
And touch upon the master-ch 

Of all I felt and feel. 
Old wishes, ghosts of broken p 

And phantom hopes assembl 
And that child's heart within 1 

Begins to move and tremble 

Thro' many an hour of summc 

By many pleasant ways, 
Against its fountain upward n 

The current of my days. 
I kiss the lips I once have kiss 

The gaslight wavers dimmei 
And softiv, thro' a vinous mist 

My college friendships glim 



WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE 



103 



I BOW in worth and wit and sense, 

Unboding critic-pen, 
Or that etwnal want of pence 

Wbieh vexes public men, 
Wbo hold their hands to all, and cry 

For that whieh all deny them — 
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, 

And tU the world go by them. 

All ! yet, tho' all the world forsake, 

The' fortune clip my wings, 50 

I wiU not cramp my heart, nor take 

Half-views of men and things. 
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; 

There must be stormy weather; 
Bot for aome true result of g^ood 

All parties work together. 

Let there be thistles, there are grapes; 

If old thinni, there are new; 
Ten thonsand broken lights and shapes, 

Yet glimpses of the true. 60 

Ut nSA be rife in prose and rhyme, 

We lack not rhymes and reasons, 
As CD Vnis whirligig of Time 

We drde with the seasons. 

This earth is rich in man and maid, 

With fiur horizons bound; 
This whole wide earth of light and shade 

Comes out a perfect round. 
*ngn over roaring Temple-bar, 

And set in heaven's third story, 70 

Ilookatall things as they are, 

^ thro' a kind of glory. 



Hesd-waiter, honor'd by the guest 

Half-mnaed, or reeling ripe, 
^ pint yon bxoaght me was the best 

That ever came from pipe. 
Bot tho' the port surpasses praise. 

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. 
I> there some magic in the place ? 

^ do my peptics differ ? 

For wnee I came to live and learn, 

No pint of white or red 
Had eter half the power to turn 

This wheel within my head, 
Which bears a seasoned brain about, 

Unsolnect to confusion, 
Tho' •oak'd and saturate, out and out, 

llffo' every convolution. 



80 



For I am of a numerous house, 

With many kinsmen g^y, 90 

Where long and largely we carouse 

As who shall say me nay ? 
Each month, a birthday coming on, 

We drink, defying trouble, 
Or sometimes two would meet in one, 

And then we drank it double; 

Whether the vintage, yet unkept. 

Had relish fiery-new, 
Or elbow-deep in sawdust slept. 

As old as Waterloo, 100 

Or, stow'd when classic Canning died. 

In musty bins and chambers, 
Had cast upon its crusty side 

The gloom of ten Decembers. 

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is I 

She answer'd to my call; 
She changes with that mood or this. 

Is all-in-all to all; 
She lit the spark within my throat. 

To make my blood run quicker, no 

Used all her fiery will, and smote 

Her life into the liquor. 

And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter's hands, that reach 
To each his perfect pint of stout. 

His proper chop to each. 
He looks not like the common breed 

That with the napkin dally; 
I think he came, like Ganymede, 

From some delightful valley. tao 

The Cock was of a larger egg 

Tlian modem poultry drop, 
Stept forward on a firmer leg. 

And cramm'd a plumper orop» 
Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 

Crow'd lustier late and early, 
Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 

And raked in golden barley. 

A private life was all his joy. 

Till in a court he saw 130 

A something-pottle-bodied boy 

That knuchJed at the taw. 
He stoop'd and dutch'd him, fair and 
good, 

Flew over roof and casement; 
His brothers of the weather stood 

Stock-still for sheer amazement. 



i 



t04 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



fiat he, by fartnstead, thorpe, and Bpii% 

And follow'd with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire. 

Came crowing over Thames. 140 

Right down bj smoky Paul's thej bore, 

Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix'd for ever at the door, 

And one became head-waiter. 



But whither would my fancy go? 

How out of place she makes 
The violet of a legend blow 

Among the chops and steaks ! 
'T is bat a steward of the can, 

One shade more plump than common; 
As just and mere a senring-man 

As any bom of woman. 



«5» 



I ranged too high: what draws me down 

Into the common day ? 
Is it the weight of that half-crown 

Which I shall have to pay ? 
For, something duller than at first, 

Nor wholly comfortable, 
I sit, my empty glass reversed, 

Aud thrumming on the table; 160 

Half fearfal that, with self at strife, 

I take myself to task. 
Lest of the fulness of my life 

I leave an empty flask; 
For I had hope, by something rare. 

To prove myself a poet, 
But, while I iJan and plan, my hair 

Is gray before I know it. 

So fares it since the years began, 

Till they be gathered up; 170 

The truth, that flies the flowing can. 

Will haunt the vacant cup; 
And others' follies teach us not, 

Nor much their wisdom teaches; 
And most, of sterling worth, is what 

Our own experience preaches. 

Ah, let the rusty theme alone f 

We know not what we know. 
But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone; 

'T is gone, and let it go. 180 

rr is gone: a thousand such have slipt 

Away from my embraces. 
And fallen into the dusty crypt 

Of darken'd forms and faces. 



Go, therefore, thoa ! thy betters went 

Ijong since, and came no more; 
With peals of genial clamor tent 

From * lau*' a tavem-dooTy 
With twistea quirks and happj fails. 

From misty men of letters; 
The tavern-hoars of miriity wits^ — 

Thine elders and thy betters; 

Hours when the Poet's words and looks 

Had yet their native glow. 
Nor yet the fear of little hoiHa 

Had made him talk for show; 
But, all his vast heart shenia-warm'd. 

He flash'd his random speeehea. 
Ere days that deal in ana awarm'd 

His uterary leeches. 

So mix for ever with the past. 

Like all good things on earth I 
For should I prise thee, couldst thou last. 

At half thy real worth ? 
I hold it good, good things shoald 

With time I will not qnanel; 
It is but yonder empty gtass 

That inakes me manmin-moraL 



Head-waiter of the ehop-hoose bere^ 

To which I most resort, 
I too must part; I hold thee dear 

For this good pint of port. 
For this, thou shalt from all things saek 

Marrow of mirth and laughter; 
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck 

Shall fling her old shoe after. 

But thou wilt never move from benoe. 

The sphere thy fate allots; 
Thy latter days increased with penee 

Go down among the pots; 
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam 

In haunts of hungry sinners. 
Old boxes, larded with the steun 

Of thirty thousand dinners. 



We fret, we fume, would shift oar skins. 

Would quarrel with our lot; 
Thy care is, under polish'd tins. 

To serve the hot-and-hot; 
To come and go, and come again, 

Returning like the pewit, ^ 

And watch'd by silent gentlemen. 

That trifle with the cruet. 



aao 



LADY CLARE 



"S 



Utn Vmg, ere from th j topmoet head 

Thfi thiek-eet hazel dies; 
Long, ere the hateful orow shall tread 

lae eoners of thine eyes; 
Live loog^ nor feel in head or ehest 

Our ehangef nl equinoxes, 
T31 mellow Death, like some late guest, 

Shall call thee from the boxes. 



240 



Bot when he calls, and thou shalt oease 

To pace the gritted floor. 
And, Ujing down an unctuous lease 

Of life, shalt earn no more. 
No eurred cross-bones, the types of Death, 

Shill show thee past to heaven, 
Bot carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 

A pmt-pot neatly graven. 



LADY CLARE 

Rnt printed in 1842. A note in that edition 
ind the next sUted that the ballad was * partly 
MggcitBd by the novel of *' Inheritance " ' (Miss 
Forier'i), the heroine of which is a Miss St 

CUir. 

It waa ihe time when lilies blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lnd Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To giie his cousin. Lady Clare. 

Itmw they did not part In soom; 

Ureia long-betroth'd were they; 
^^ two wiU wed the morrow mom — 

God'a Uessing on the day! 

'He does not love me for my birth. 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 10 

He lorea me for my own true worth. 
And that is well,' said Lady Ckre. 

^ there came old Alice the nurse, 
Sftid,' Who was this that went from thee ? * 

'It waa my cousin,' said Lady Clare; 
'To-morrow he weds with me.* 



'0, God be thank'd,' said Alice the nurse, 
'That all comes round so just and fair I 

I^ Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare.' 



90 



'Are ye ont of your mind, my nurse, my 
nnrse/ 
fiiid Lady Claxe, ' that ve speak so wild ? ' 



' As God 's above,' said Alice the nurse, 
< I speak the troth: yon are my child. 

' The old earl's daughter died at my breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buned her like mv own sweet child. 

And put my chila in her stead.' 



' Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

O mother,' she said, * if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due.' 



j« 



' Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 
' But keep the secret for your life. 

And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife.' 

' If I 'm a beggar bom,' she said, 
* I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 
And flmg the diamond necklMe by.' 40 

* Nav now, my child,' said Alice the nurse, 
' riut keep the secret all ve can.' 

She said, < Not so; but I will know 
If there be any faith in man.' 

'Nay now, what faith?' said Alice tho 
nurse; 

' The man will cleave unto his rieht.' 
' And he shall have it,' the lady replied, 

< Tho' I should die to-night' 

' Tet give one kiss to your mother dear I 
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee I ' jo 

' O mother, mother, mother,' she said, 
' So strange it seems to me. 

' Yet hisre 's a kiss for my mother dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so. 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, motner, ere I go.' 

She clad herself in a russet eown. 
She was no longer Lady Clare; 

She went b^ dale, and she went by down. 
With a smgle rose in her hair. 60 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And follow'd her all the way. 



io6 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 

* O Lady Clare, yon shame your worth f 
Why come you drest like a village maid, 

That are the flower of the earth ? ' 

' If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am hut as my fortunes are; 70 

I am a heggar horn,' she said, 

* And not the Lady Clare.' 

' Pl^ me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' For I am yours in word and in deed. 

Play me no tricks,' said Lord Ronald, 
' Your riddle is hard to read.' 

O, and proudly stood she up f 
Her heart within her did not fail; 

She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 

And told him all her nurse's tale. 80 

He laugh'd a langh of merry scorn; 

He tnm'd and kiss'd her where she stood; 
* If you are not the heiress horn, 

Ajid I,' said he, * the next in blood, — 

' li yon are not the heiress bom, 
Ajid I,' said he, ' the lawful heir, 

We two will wed to-morrow mom. 
And you shall still be Lady Clare.' 



THE CAPTAIN 

A LEGEND OF THE XAVY 

First printed in the 'Selections' of 1865, 
and unaltered. 

He that only rules by terror 

Doeth grievous wrong. 
Deep as hell I count bis error. 

Let him hear my song. 
Brave the Captain was; the seamen 

Made a gallant crew, 
Gallant sons of English freemen, 

Sailors bold and true. 
But they hated bis oppression; 

Stern he was and rash, 
So for every li^ht transgression 

Doom'd them to the lash. 
Day by day more harsh and cruel 

Seem'd the Captain's mood. 
Secret wrath like smother'd fuel 

Burnt in each man's blood. 
Yst he hoped to purchase glory. 



Hoped to make the name 
Of his vessel great in story, 

Wheresoe'er he came. 
So they past by capes and islandi^ 

Many a harbor-mouth. 
Sailing under palmy highlands 

Far within the South. 
On a day when they were going 

O'er the lone expanse. 
In the north, her canvas flowing. 

Rose a ship of France. 
Then the Captain's color heighten'd^ 

Joy fid came his speech; 
But a cloudy gladness lightened 

In the eyes of each. 
* Chase,' he said; the ship flew forward 

And the wind did blow; 
Stately, lightly, went she norward. 

Till she near'd the foe. 
Then they look'd at him they hated. 

Had what they desired; 
Mute with folded arms they waited — 

Not a gun was fired. 
But they heard the foeman's thunder 

Roaring ont their doom ; 
All the air was torn in sunder. 

Crashing went the boom. 
Spars were splinter'd, declu were shatti 

BuUets fell like rain; 
Over mast and deck were scatter'd 

Blood and brains of men. 
Spars were splinter'd; decks were brol 

Every mother's son — 
Down they dropt — no word was 8p<^e 

Each beside his g^n. 
On the decks as they were lying, 

Were their faces grim. 
In their blood, as they lay dying. 

Did they smile on him. 
Those in whom he had reliance 

For his noble name 
With one smile of still defiance 

Sold him unto shame. 
Shame and wrath his heart confounded. 

Pale he tnm'd and red, 
Till himself was deadly wounded 

Falling on the dead. 
Dismal error ! fearful slaughter 1 

Years have wander'd by; 
Side by side beneath the water 

Crew and Captain lie; 
There the sunlit ocean tosses 

O'er them mouldering, 
And the lonely seabird crosses 

With one waft of the wing. 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 



107 



THE LORD OF BURLEIGH 
ISnt printed in 1842, and unaltered. 

Ir ker ear he whispers gaily, 

'If mj heart by signs can tell, 
Uaklen, I have watch'd thee dally, 

And I think thou lov'st me well.' 
Sbe replies, in accente fainter, 

'lliere is none I love like thee.' 
Be is bat a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden sbe. 
He to lips that fondly falter 

Presses his without reproof, 10 

Letdd her to the village altar, 

And they leave her fatber^s roof. 
'I can make no marriage present; 

Little can I give my wife. 
LoTe will make our cottage pleasant. 

And I love thee more than life.' 
They by parks and lodges going 

See Uie lordly castles stand; 
Sammer woods, about them blowing, 

Made a murmur in the land. ao 

From deep thought himself he rouses. 

Says to ber that loves him well, 
'Let Qs see these handsome houses 

Where the wealthy nobles dwelL' 
So she goes by him attended. 

Hears him lovingly converse, 
Sees whatever fair and splendid 

Lay betwixt his home and hers; 
^^rks with oak and chestnut shady. 

Parks and order'd wardens great, 30 

Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Boilt for pleasure and for state. 
All he shows ber makes him dearer; 

ETermore she seems to gnze 
On that cotteg^ growing nearer, 

Where they twain will spend their days. 
0, but she will love him truly f 

He shall have a cheerful home; 
Sbe wfll order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 40 
Thn» her heart rejoices greatly, 

^11 a gateway she discerns 
With armorial bearings stately. 

And beneath the gate she turns. 
Sees a mansion more majestic 

Than all those she saw before. 
Hsnv a gallant gay domestic 
Bows before him at the door; 



•fn 



And they speak in gentle murmur, 

When they answer to his call. 
While he treads with footstep firmer. 

Leading ou fi'om hall to hall. 
And, while now she wonders blindly, 

Nor the meaning can divine. 
Proudly turns he round and kindly, 

* All of this is mine and thine.' 
Here be lives in state and bounty. 

Lord of Burleigh, fair and free; 
Not a lord in all the county 

Is so great a lord as he. 
All at once the color flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin; 
As it were with shame she blushes. 

And her spirit changed within. 
Then her countenance all over 

Pale again as death did prove; 
But he cTaesp'd her like a lover, 

And he cheer'd her soul with love. 
So she strove against her weakness, 

Tho' at times her spirit sank. 
Shaped her heart with woman's meekness 

To all duties of her rank; 
And a gentle consort made he. 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady. 

And the people loved her much. 
But a trouble weigh'd upon her. 

And perplex'd her, night and morn. 
With the burthen of an honor 

Unto which sbe was not bom. 80 

Faint she grew, and ever fainter. 

And she murmur'd, ' O, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter 

Which did win my heart from me I * 
So she droop'd and droop'd before him. 

Fading slowly from his side; 
Three fair children first she bore him, 

Then before her time she died. 
Weeping, weeping late and early. 

Walking up and pacing down, 90 

Deeply motirn'd the Lord of Burleigh, 

Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look*d at her and said, 
*• Bring the dress and put it on her. 

That she wore when she was wed.' 
Then her people, softly treading. 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
Li the dress that she was wed in. 

That her spirit might have rest. 



io8 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



THE VOYAGE 

Fint printed in the ' Enodi Arden ' Tolnme 
in 1864. 

* Life as Enei;^, in the great ethical seaae 
of the word, — Lixe as the pnnmit of the Ideal, 
— is fi|^red in this brilliantly descriptive alle- 
gory '(PilgraTe). 

I 

We left behind the painted bnoy 

That tosses at the harbor-month; ^ 
And madly danced our hearts with joy, 

As fast we fleeted to the south. 
How fresh was every sight and sound 

On open main or winding shore 1 
We knew the merry world was round. 

And we might sail for evermore. 

• 
n 

Warm broke the breeze against the brow, 

Dnr sang the tackle, sang the sail; to 
The Lady Vhead upon the prow 

Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the 
gaJe. 
The broad seas swell'd to meet the keel. 

And swept behind; so quick the run. 
We felt the good ship shake and reel. 

We seem'd to sail mto the son 1 

III 

How oft we saw the sun retire. 

And bum the threshold of the night. 
Fall from his Ocean-lane of Are, 

And sleep beneath bis pillar'd light I so 
How oft the purple-skirted robe 

Of twilight slowly downward drawn. 
As thro' the slumber of the globe 

Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 

IV 

New stars all night above the brim 

Of waters lighten'd into view; 
They dimb'd as quickly, for the rim 

Chang^ every moment as we flew. 
Far ran the naked moon across 

The houseless ocean's heaving field, 30 
Or flying shone, the silver boss 

Of her own halo's dusky shield. 



The peaky islet shifted shapes. 

High towns on hills were dimly seen; 

We past long lines of Northern capes 
And dewy Northern meadows green. 



We came to warmer waves, and 
Across the boundless east we i 

Where those long swells of breal 
The nutmeg rocks and isles of 

VI 

By peaks that flamed, or, all in s 

Gloom'd the low coast and ^uiv( 
With ashy rains, that spreadmg : 

Fantastic plume or sable pine; 
By sands and steaming flats, and 

Of mighty mouth, we scudded 
And hills and scarlet-mingled wo 

Glow'd for a moment as we pa 

vn 

O hundred shores of happy clim< 

How swiftly streamed ye by th 
At times the whole sea bum d, a 

With wakes of fire we tore tlu 
At times a carven craft would sh 

From havens hid in fairy bowe 
With naked limbs and flowers an 

But we nor paused for fruit nc 

vni 

For one fair Vision ever fled 

Down the waste waters day an 
And still we follow'd where she 1 

In hope to gain upon her flight 
Her face was evermore unseen. 

And fixt upon the far sea-line; 
But each man murmur'd, ' O my 

I follow till I make thee mine. 

IX 

And now we lost her, now she gl 

Like Fancy made of golden aii 
Now nearer to the prow she seer 

Like Virtue firm, like Knowle< 
Now high on waves that idly bui 

Like Heavenly Hope she cr 
sea, 
And now, the bloodless point rev 

She bore the blade of Liberty. 



And only one among us — him 

We pleased not — he was seldoi 
He saw not far, his eyes were dii 

But ours he swore were all disi 
'A ship of fools,' he shriek 'd in t 

* A ship of fools,' he sneer'd ai 
And overboard one stormy night 

He cast his body, and on we sv 



A FAREWELL 



109 



XI 

Aid nerer sail of oun was furl'd, 
Nor iuehor dropt at eve or morn; 

We loved the glories of the world, 
Bat laws of nature were our scorn. 

For blasts woold rise and raye and cease, 
Bat whence were those that drove the 



90 



Aeraos the whirlwind's heart of peace, 
And to and thro' the counter gale ? 

xu 

Anin to colder climes we came, 

For still we followed where she led; 
Kow mate is blind and captain lame, 

And half the crew are sick or dead, 
Bot, blind or lame or sick or sound, 

We follow that which flies before; 
We know the merry world is round, 

And we may sail for evermore. 



SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN 
GUINEVERE 

A FRAGMENT 

Fint printed in 1842. In the Ist stanza * elm- 
tiee ' was originally * linden ' ; and in the 4th 
'la' wat * On,' and ^fleeter now ' was ' still more 
fleet' 

LiR sools that balance joy and pain, 
Witb tears and smiles from heaven again 
The maiden Spring upon the plain 
Came m a sunlit fall of rain. 

In crystal vapor everywhere 
Bine isles of heaven laugh'd between, 
And far, in forest^eeps unseen, 
The topmost elm-tree gathered green 

From draughts of balmy air. 

Sometinies the linnet piped his song; 
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong; 
betimes the sparhawk, wheel 'd along, 
Hosb'd all the groves from fear of wrong; 

By grassy capes with fuller sound 
In curves the yellowing river ran. 
And drooping chestnnt-buds began 
To spreaa into the perfect fan. 

Above the teeming ground. 

Then, in the boyhood of the year, 
Sir Launoelot and Queen Guinevere 



Rode thro' the coverts of the deer. 
With blissful treble ringing clear. 

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring; 
A gown of grass-ereen silk she wore. 
Buckled witb golden clasps before; 
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore 

ClcMed in a golden ring. 

Now on some twisted ivy-net. 

Now by some tinkling rivulet. 

In mosses mixt with violet 

Her cream-white mule his pastern set; 

And fleeter now she skimm'd the 
plains 
Than she whose elfin prancer springs 
By night to eery warblings, 
When all the glimmering moorland rings 

With jingling bridle-reins. 

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade^ 
The happy winds upon her play'd. 
Blowing the ringlet from the braid. 
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd 

The rein with dainty finger-tipSy 
A man had given all other bliss. 
And all his worldly worth for this. 
To waste his whole heart in one kiss 

Upon her perfect lips. 



A FAREWELL 

First printed in 1842, and unaltered except 
* thousand suns * for * hundred suns.' 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 

Thy tribute wave deliver; 
No more by thee my steps shall be. 

For ever and for ever. 

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea^ 

A rivulet, then a river; 
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 

For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder-tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee, 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on theey 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be^ 
For ever and for ever. 



i 



lie 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



THE BEGGAR MAID 

Pint printed in 1842, and unaltered. It is 
founded on the old ballad of * King^ Cophetua 
and the Beggar Maid,' which was very popular 
in its day, and is alluded to by IShakesDeare in 
* Love*8 Labour 's Lost,' ' Richard II.,' and 
' Romeo and Juliet.' 

Hkr arms across her breast she laid; 

She was more fair than words can say; 
Barefootei came the beggar maid 

Before the king Cophetua. 
In robe and crown the king stept down. 

To meet and greet her on her way; 
' It is no wonder,' said the lords, 

* She is more beautiful than day.' 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 

She in her poor attire was seen; 
Oue praised her ankles, one her eyes. 

One her dark hair and lovesome mien. 
So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had neyer been. 
Cophetua sware a royal oath: 

' This beggar maid shall be my queen I ' 

THE EAGLE 

FRAGMENT 

First printed in the edition of 185L 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls. 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

*MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY 
EARTH ' 

First printed in 1842, when the ninth line 
had ' lightly ' instead of ' smoothly.' 

The silver sister- world ' is Venus, the raom- 
ing-star, not the moon, as some have assumed. 

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave 
Yon orange sunset waning slow; 

From fringes of the faded eve, 
O happy planet, eastward go, 

Till over thy dark shoulder glow 
Thy silver sister- world, and rise 



To glass herself in dewy ej 
That watch me from the glen 

Ah, bear me with thee, smoot 
Dip forward under starry 1 

And move me to my marriagi 
And round again to happy ; 

•COME NOT, WHEN I Al\ 

First printed in 'The Keepsaki 
under the title of 'Stanzas;' incl 
seventh edition of the ' Poems ' th< 

Come not, when I am dead. 

To drop thy foolish tears upoi 

To trample round my fallen hea 

And vex the unhappy dust tli 

not save. 

There let the wind sweep and 

cry; 

But thou, go by. 

Child, if it were thine error or t 
I care no longer, being all unl 
Wed whom thou wilt, but I i 
time. 
And I desire to rest. 
Flass on, weak heart, and leave i 
lie; 
Go by, go by. 



THE LETTERS 

First published with ' Maud ' ii 
unaltered. 



Still on the tower stood the va 

A black yew gloomed the stag 
I peer'd athwart the chancel par 

And saw the altar cold and ba 
A clog of lead was round my fee 

A band of pain across my bro 
* Cold altar, heaven and earth sh 

Before you hear my marriage 

II 

I turn'd and humm'd a bitter soi 
That mock'd the wholeson 
heart. 

And then we met in wrath and y 
We met, but only meant to pa 

Full cold my greeting was and (\ 
She faintly smiled, she hardly 



THE VISION OF SIN 



In-Bithh&lf-un 
She vote tlie colon I approved. 



She t«ok tbe little ivoiy chest, 
Witb half a sigh she turn'd the kej, 

Hun taiied her head with lips comprest, 
iai giTc my letters back to me; 

AlA pre the trinkets and tbe rings, 
iij gifts, when gifts of tniue oonld 

it Wlu a father on tbe things 
Of hii dead son, I look'd on these. 



Ek told me all her friends had said; 

I raged RgniuBt the public liar; 
ShtJk'd SLs if her love wore dead. 

But in my words were seeds of fire. 
'Ko more of love, your sei is known; 

1 Dever will be twice dcaeived. 
Bedcefortli I trust the man aloue, 

Ike woman cannot be believed. 



'Thro' ilander, meanest spawn of bell, — 

And women's slander is the worst, — 
And ;du, whom once I loved so well, 

Tim' jou my life will be accurst.' 
iRwke with heart and beat and force, 

I sbDok her breast with vague alarms - 
Like lorrents from a mountain source 

We niih'd into each other's arms. 



Wa pirted; sweetly gleam'd the stare, 

Andiweet the vapor-bmided blue; 
low breezes fann'd the helfrj bars, 

Aihomewnrd by the church I drew. 
■O* 'Etj graves appear'd to smile, 

So fregh they rose in shadow'd swells; 
i™k pnrch,' I said, ' and silent aisle, 

Then comes a sound of marriage bells.' 



THE VISION OF SIN 

RntprJDtedin 1S42. Unes 07, 08, 121, 122 
MGnlhad 'minute' tor ' mnment ' i IlHi, 'in' 
far ' bj ' ; 128, ■ the ' for ' a ' ; 168, ' or ' for 
'ftor'i 206, 'AgMD' for 'Once mom'; and 
!Li, ■aid ' for ' spake,' In the ' Selectioiis ' of 
JBK. Ibiit only there) the following coapl^t up- 
psus after line 214: — 



I HAD a vision when tbe night was late; 
A youth came riding toward a pniacu-gnfe. 
He rode a horse with wiugij, that would 

have Ho wo. 
But that his heavy rider kept dim down. 
And fi'uui the palace came a child of sin. 
And took him by the curls, and led him 

Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
Expecting when a fountain sboold arise, 
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips — 
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, id 
l)reams over lake and lawn, and hies and 

Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and 
piles of grapes. 



Then metlioiiglit I heartl a mellow sound, 
Gntbei-ing up from all the lower ground; 
Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
bled. 
Low voluptuous music winding trembled. 
Woven in ciiules. They that heard it sigh'd. 
Panted hand-in-band with faces pale, 
Swung themselves, and in low tones re- 
Till tbe fountain spouted, showering wide 
Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail. 
Then the music touch'd the gates and died. 
Rose again from where it seeni'd to fail. 
Storm 'd in orbs of song, a. growing gale; 
Till thronging in and in, to where they 

wailed. 
As 't were a hundred-throated nightingale. 
The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 

and palpitated; 
Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, 
Caught the sparkles, and in circles, >j 

Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid maxed. 
Flung the torrent rainbow round. 
Then they started from their placet, 
Moved with violenoe, changed in hue. 
Caught each other with wild griumcea, 
^laU-iu visible to the view, 
Wheeling with precipitHte paces 
To the melody, till they flew, 
Hair and eyes nod timhs and faces. 
Twisted hard in fierce embraces, ^ 

Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
Duh'd togetbet iu bUoding dewj 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



11, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
oe nerye-dissolving melody 
Intter'd headlong From the sky. 

Ill 

knd then I look'd up toward a monntain- 

traot, 
Fhat girt the region with high cliff and 

lawn. 
I saw that eyery morning, far withdrawn 
Beyond the darkness and the cataract, 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 
Unheeded; and detaching, fold by fold, 51 
From those still heights, and, slowly draw- 
ing near, 
A yapor heavy, hneless, formless, cold. 
Came floating on for many a month and 

year. 
Unheeded; and I thought I would have 

spoken, 
And wam'd that madman ere it grew too 

late. 
But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was 

broken. 
When that cold vapor touch'd the palace- 
gate, 
And link'd again. I saw within my head 
A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 
death, 60 

Who slowly rode across a withered heath. 
And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said: 

IV 

' Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin I 
Here b custom come your way; 

Take my brute, and lead him in. 
Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 

' Bitter barmaid, waning fast f 
See that sheets are on my bed. 

What ! the flower of life is past; 

It is long before you wed. 70 

* Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour. 

At the Dragon on the heath ! 
Let us have a quiet hour. 

Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 

* I am Old, but let me drink; 

Bring me spices, bring me wine; 
I remember, when I think, 
That my youth was half divine. 

< Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, 
When a blanket wraps the oay, to 



When the rotten woodland dripe, 
And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 

' Sit thee down, and have no shame» 

Cheek by jowl, and knee by 
What oare I for any name ? 

What for order or degree ? 

* Let me screw thee up a peg; 

Let me loose thy tongue with 
Callest thou that thing a leg ? 

Which is thinnest ? thine or mine ? 

' Thou shalt not be saved by works, 

Thou hast been a sinner too; 
Ruin'd trunks on wither*d forks, 

Empty scarecrows^ I and yon I 

' Fill the enp and fill the can. 
Have a rouse before the mom; 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is bom. 

' We are men of ruin'd blood; 

Therefore comes it we are wise. 1 

Fish are we that love the mud^ 

Rising to no fancy-flies. 

' Name and fame f to fly sublime 
Thro' the courts, the camps, the scInki* 

Is to be the ball of Time, 
Bandied by the hands of fools. 

* Friendship ! — to be two in one — 

Let the canting liar pack I 
Well I know, when I am gone. 
How she mouths behind my back. 

* Virtue ! — to be good and just — 

Every heart, when sifted well. 
Is a clot of warmer dust, 

Mix'd with cunning sparks of helL 

' O, we two as well can look 
Whited thought and cleanly life 

As the priest, above his book 
Leering at his neighbor's wife. 

' Fill the cup and fill the can. 
Have a rouse before the mom: 

Every moment dies a man. 
Every moment one is bom. 

' Drink, and let the parties rave; 
They are fiU'd with idle spleen, 



THE VISION OF SfN 



««3 



130 



140 



BiflBg, foiling, like a wave^ 
For they know not what they mean. 

' He that loan for liberty 
Faster binds a tyrant's power. 

And the tyrant's cruel glee 
Forces on the freer hour. 

Till the ean and fill the enp; 

All the windy ways of men 
Are bat dnst that rises up, 

And is lightly laid agam. 

'Greet her with applausive breath, 
Freedom, gaily doth she tread; 

In her right a civio wreath, 
In her left a human head. 

'No, I love not what is new; 

She is of an ancient bouse. 
And I think we know the hue 

Of that cap upon her brows. 

'Let her go I her thirst she slakes 
Where the bloody conduit runs, 

1^0 her sweetest meal she makes 
On the first-born of her sous. 

'Drink to lofty hopes that cool, — 

Visions of a perfect State ; 
Drink we, last, the public fool, 

Frantic love and trantic hate. 

' Chant me now some wicked stave, 
Till thy drooping courage rise, 

■And the glow-worm of the grave 
Crlimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 

' Fear not thou to loose thy tongue, 

Set thy hoary fancies free; 
"^ ia loathsome to the young 

Savors well to thee and me. 



•Change, reverting to the years, 
^^en thy nerves could nnderstadd 160 
^^hai there is in lovine tears. 
And the warmth of hand in hand. 

'Tell me tales of thy first love — 
April hopes, the fools of chance — 

Till the graves begin to move. 
And t£e dead begin to dance. 

'/Bl the can and fill the cup; 
m the windy ways of men 



150 



Are 



170 



180 



re but dust that rises up, 
And is lightly laid again. 

' Trooping from their mouldy dens 
The chap-fallen circle spreads — 

Welcome, fellow-citizens. 

Hollow hearts and empty heads I 

* Ton are bones, and what of that ? 

Every face, however full. 
Padded round with flesh and fat, 

Is but modell'd on a skull. 

' Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 

Tread a measure on the stones^ 
Madam — if I know your sex 

From the fashion of your bones. 

' No, I cannot praise the fire 
In your eye — nor yet your lip; 

All the more do I admire 
Joints of cunning workmanship. 



* Lo I God's likeness — the ground-plan — 

Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed; 
Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, 
Far too naked to be shamed I 19c 

* Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 

While we keep a little breath ! 
Drink to heavy ignorance I 
Hob-and-noD with brother Death I 

' Thou art mazed, the nieht is long. 
And the longer night is near — 

What I I am not all as wrong 
As a bitter jest is dear. 

< Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 

When the locks are crisp and curl'd; aoo 

Unto me my maudlin gall 
And my mockeries of the world. 

< Fill the cup and fill the can; 

Mingle madness, mingle scorn t 
Dregs of life, and lees of man; 

Yet we will not die forlorn.' 



The voice grew faint; there came a further 
change ; 

Once more uprose the mystic mountain- 
range. 

Below were men and horses pieroed with 
worms, J09 



114 



ENGLISH IDYLS, AND OTHER POEMS 



And slowly quickening into lower forms; 
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of 

dross. 
Old plash of rains, and refuse patched with 

moss. 
Then some one spake: ' Behold I it was a 

crime 
Of sense aveng^ by sense that wore with 

time.' 
Another said: 'The crime of sense became 
The crime of malice, and is equal blame.' 
And one: ' He had not wholly quench 'd his 

power; 
A little ?rain of conscience made him sour.' 
At last I heard a voice upon the slope 219 
Cry to the summit, ' Is there any hope ? ' 
To which an answer peal'd from that high 

land. 
But in a tongue no man could understand; 
And on the glimmering limit far with- 
drawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. 



TO 



AFTER READING A LIFE AVD LETTERS 

* Cimed be he tluit inoT«« my bones.* 

Skakupeart'M Epitaph, 

First printed in the * Examiner * for March 24, 
1849, and included in the sixth edition of the 
* Poems ' in 1850. The second part of the title, 
' After Reading a Life and Letters,* was added 
in 1853. 

Tou might have won the Poet's name. 
If siich be worth the winning now. 
And gain'd a laurel for your brow 

Of sounder leaf than I can claim; 

But yon have made the wiser choice, 
A life that moves to gracious ends 
Thro' troops of tmrecording friends, 

A deedf ul life, a silent voice. 

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom 
Of those that wear the Poet's crown; 
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown 

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 

For now the Poet cannot die, 
Nor leave his music as of old. 
But round him ere he scarce be oold 
the scandal and the 017: 



' Proclaim the faults be would not alio 
Break lock and seal, betray the troa 
Keep nothing sacred, 't is but just 

The many-headed beast ihould know.' 

Ah, shameless I for he did but sing 
A song that pleased as from its wov 
No public life was his on earth. 

No blazou'd statesman he, nor king. 

He gave the people of hia beat; 

His woi-st he kept, his best he gave. 

My Shakespeare's corse on clowii 
knave 
Who will not let his ashes rest ! 

Who make it seem more sweet to be 
The little life of bank and brier. 
The bird that pipes his lone desire 

And dies unheard within his tree. 

Than he that warbles long and laud 
And drops at Glory's temple-gates. 
For whom the carrion vulture waits 

To tear his heart before the crowd I 



TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS 

GREECE 

First printed in 185.% and unaltered. I 
addressed to Edward Lear, the painter, 
refers to his *' I «and«cape-Painter in All 
and niyria,' 1851. 

Illtrian woodlands, echoing falls 
Of water, sheets of summer glassy 
The long divine PeneXan pass, 

The vast Akrokeraunian wails, 

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair. 
With such a pencil, such a pen. 
You shadow forth to distant men, 

I read and felt that I was there. 

And trust me while I tum'd the page, 
And tracked you stUl on classic groa 
I grew in gladness till I found 

My spirits in the golden age. 

For me the torrent ever pour'd 

And glisten 'd — here and there alom 
The broad-limb'd Gods at random tbi 

By foontain-ams; — and Naiads oar'd 



THE PRINCESS 



"S 



1 ritaBMring shoulder UDder i^loom 
Of oaT«ni pillan; on the swell 
Hm ailTer lily heaved mod fell; 

lad mtnj a slope was rioh in hloom, 

i^ bim that on the mountain lea 
Bj dancing riynlets fed his flocks 
To him who sat npon the rooks 

And fluted to the morning sea. 



Fint pinted in 1842, and unaltered. Vari- 
m fiueif ol aooounts of its origin have been pnb- 
lidied; but, accordinfr to the poet himself, * it 
vat made in a Lincolnahire lane at five o*oloek 
IB the monuDg between blossoming hedges.' 

Briak, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea I 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

Ibe thoughts that arise in me. 

0, well for the fisherman's boy, 
That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

0, well for the sailor lad. 
That he sings in his boat on the Imj ! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 
Bot for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voioe that is still 1 

Bieak, break, break. 
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 



But the tender grace of a day thai is dead 
Will never oome back to me. 



THE POET'S SONG 

First printed in 1842, and unaltered for 
more than forty years, when ' fly ' was substi- 
tuted for * bee * in the first line of the seoond 



The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, 

He pass'd by the town and out of the 
street; 
A light wind blew from the gates of the 
sun, 
And waves of shadow went over the 
wheat; 
And he sat him down in a lonely place. 

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
That made the wild-swan pause iii her 
cloud. 
And the lark drop down at his feet. 

The swallow stopt as he hunted the fly, 

The snake slipt under a spray, 
The wild hawk stood with the down on his 
beak. 

And stared, with his foot on the prey; 
And the nightingale thought, < I have sung 
many songs. 

But never a one so g^y, 
For he sing^ of what the world will be 

When the years have died away.' 



THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY 



^ poem was first published in 1847, but has since under^ne many changes. In the second 
*|fitioB, iMued in 1848, the dedication to Henry Loshin^ton was added (omitted in the recent edi- 
tiott), and the text was slightly revised. In the third (1850) the six intercalary songs were in- 
■rtid, many additions and alterations were made in the body of the poem, and ^e Prologue and 
Condmion were partially rewritten. The most important ohanfce in the fourth edition (iSSl) was 
tlM mtndaetion of the passafres relatini^ to the * weird seizures ' of the Prince. In the fifth edition 
(1853) linss 35-49 of the Prologue (* O miracle of women,' etc) first appeared, and the text was 
■•tUid in the form whidi it has sinoe preserved. For the various readings, ete., see the Notes. 



PROLOGUE 

Sn Waltbr Yivzak all a summer's day 
6a?t his broad lawns until the set of sun 
Up to the people; thither flock'd at noon 
fill tenants, wife and ahild, and thither 
half 



The neighboring borough with their Insti- 
tute, 
Of which he was the patron. I was there 
From college, visiting the son, — the son 
A Walter too, — with others of our set. 
Five others; we were seven at YiviMi- 

plftiW. 



ii6 



THE PRINCESS 



And me that morning Walter sbow'd the 

house, lo 

Greek, set with basts. From yases in the 

hall 
Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than 

their names, 
Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay 
Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the 

park. 
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of 

Time; 
And on the tables every clime and age 
Jumbled together; celts and calumets, 
Claymore and snow-shoe, toys in lava, fims 
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries. 
Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, ao 
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle- 
dubs 
From the isles of palm; and higher on the 

walls, 
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and 

deer. 
His own forefathers' arms and armor hung. 

And ' this,' he said, * was Hugh's at Agin- 

eourt; 
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon. 
A good knight he ! we keep a chronicle 
With all aSout him,' — which he brought, 

and I 
Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with 

knights 39 

Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings 
Who laid about them at their wills and 

died; 
And mixt with these a lady, one that arm'd 
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the 

gate, 
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her 

walls. 

' O miracle of women,' said the book, 
* O noble heart who, being strait-besieged 
Bv this wild king to force her to his wish. 
Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunn'd a soldier's 

death. 
But now when all was lost or seem'd as 

lost — 39 

Her stature more than mortal in the burst 
Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire — 
Brake with a blast of trumpets from the 

gate. 
And, falling on them like a thunderbolt, 
She trampled some beneath her horses' 

hMlB, 



And some were wbelm'd with nriwilei 

the wall. 
And some were push'd with laoMS &Mi^ 

the rook. 
And part were drown'd within the i^irla||i| 

brook; 
O miracle of noble womanhood 1 ' 

So sang the gallant glorious ehroniflls; 

And, I lul rapt in tms, 'Come out^' hi 

said, ji 

« To the Abbey; there is Aont Eliahelh 

And sister Lilia with the rest.' We ^ 



I kept the book and hMl my &v>r k 

it 

Down thro' the park. Strange was tbesigiil 

to me; 
For all the sloping pastore momiai^di 

sown 
With happy faces and with holiday. 
There moved the multitude, a thowssii 

heads; 
The patient leaders of their Institute 
Taught them with facts. One lear'd a htk 

of stone n 

And drew, from butts of water on the skip^ 
The fountain of the moment, playing nov 
A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearii» 
Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball 
Danced like a wisp; and somewhat lower 

down 
A man with knobs and wires and vials fize^ 
A cannon ; Echo answer'd in her sleep 
From hollow fields; and here were tele- 
scopes 
For azure views; and there a gronp of giils 
In circle waited, whom the electric shock 
Dislink'd with shrieks and laughter; roond 

the lake 70 

A little clock-work steamer paddling plied 
And shook the lilies; perch'd about the 

knolls 
A dozen angry models jetted steam; 
A petty railway ran; a fire-balloon 
Rose gem-like up before the dusky grovee 
And dropt a fairy parachute and past; 
And there thro' twenty posts of telegraph 
They fiash'd a saucy message to and fro 
Between the mimic stations; so that sport 
Went hand in hand with science; othe^ 

where 80 

Pure sport; a herd of boys with elamor 

bowPd 
And stnmp'd the wicket; balnet roU'd 

about 



PROLOGUE 



"7 



Lib tamUed fruit in gnss; and men and 

maida 
imnged a ooanttr danoe, and flew thro' 

U£ht 

Aid ihadow, while the twanrling violin 
filnek ap with Soldier-laddie, and over- 
head 
Ik braad ambrosial aisles of lofty lime 
Mide noise with bees and breeze from end 
to end. 

StnuBge was the sight and smacking of 

the time; 89 

Aid loog we gazed, but satiated at length 
Ctae to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy- 

elaspt. 
Of flnett Gothic lighter than a fire, 
Tkn* one wide chasm of time and frost 

they gave 
He park, the crowd, the house; but all 

within 
The sward was trim as any garden lawn. 
Aid here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth, 
Aid Ldlia with the rest, and lady friends 
Fiom neighbor seats; and there was Ralph 

himself, 
A Mcen statue pnpt against the wall, 
Ainy as any. Lilia, mid with sport, 100 
Biu child, half woman as she was, had 

wound 
.V Ktff of orange round the stony helm, 
Aid robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, 
Thit made the old warrior from his ivied 

Dook 
3ow like a sunbeam. Near his tomb a feast 
Shone, sOver-set; about it lay the guests, 
Aid there we join'd them; then the maiden 

annt 
Took this fair day for text, and from it 

preach'd 
Ai uuTersal culture for the crowd. 
Aid all things great. But we, unworthier, 

told no 

Of eollege: he had dirab'd across the spikes, 
Aid he had squeezed himself betwixt the 

bars. 
Aid he had breathed the Proctor's dogs; 

and one 
I^iseott'd his tutor, rough to common men, 
Bit honeying at the whisper of a lord; 
Aid one the Master, as a rogue in grain 
Teaeer'd with sanctimonious theory. 

fiat while they talk'd, above their heads 
I saw 



The feudal warrior lady -clad; which 

brought 1 19 

My book to mind, and opening this I read 
Of old Sir Ralph a pagpe or two that rang 
With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her 
That drove her foes with slaughter from 

her walls. 
And much I praised her nobleness, and 

•Where,' 
Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head — she lay 
Beside him — ' lives there such a woman 

now?' 

Quick answer'd Lilia: * There are thou- 
sands now 
Such women, but convention beats them 

down; 
It is but bringing up; no more than that. 
You men have done it — bow I hate you 

all f 130 

Ah, were I something g^at I I wish I were 
Some mighty poetess, I would shame you 

then. 
That love to keep us children I O, I wish 
That I were some great princess, I would 

buUd 
Far off from men a college like a man^s, 
And I would teach them all that men are 

taught; 
We are twice as quick ! ' And here she 

shook aside 
The hand that play'd the patron with her 

curls. 

And one said smiling: * Pretty were the 

sight 
If our old halls could change their sex, and 

flaunt 140 

With prudes for proctors, dowagers for 

deans. 
And sweet girl-graduates in their golden 

hair. 
I think they should not wear our rusty 

gowns. 
But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or 

Ralph 
Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear, 
If there were many Li lias in the brood. 
However deep you might embower the nest. 
Some boy would spy it.' 

At this upon the sward 
She tapt her tiny silken-sandall'd foot: 
* That s your light way ; but I would make 

it death 150 

For any male thing but to peep at us.' 



ii8 



THE PRINCESS 



Petulant she spoke, and at herself she 

langh'd; 
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, 
And sweet as English air could make her, 

she! 
fiut Walter hail'd a score of names upon 

her, 
And ' petty Ogress,' and ' ungrateful Puss,' 
And swore he longed at college, only long'd. 
All else was well, for she-society. 
They boated and they cricketed ; they talk'd 
At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; i6o 
They lost their weeks; they vezt the souls 

of deans; 
They rode; they betted; made a hundred 

friends. 
And caught the blossom of the flying 

terms. 
But miss'd the mignonette of ViYian-plaoe, 
The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he 

spoke. 
Part banter, part affection. 

< True,' she said, 
* We doubt not that. O, yes, you miss'd us 

much! 
1 11 stake my ruby ring upon it you did.' 

She held it out; and as a parrot turns 
Up thro' gilt wires a crafty loving eye, 170 
And takes a lady's finger with all care. 
And bites it for true heart and not for 

harm. 
So he with Lilia's. Daintily she shriek'd 
And wrung it. ' Doubt my word again ! ' 

he said. 
' Come, listen I here is proof that you were 

miss'd: 
We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read; 
And there we took one tutor as to read. 
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and 

square 
Were out of season; never man, I think, 
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he; 180 

For while our cloisters eeho'd frosty feet, 
And our long walks were stript as bare as 

brooms. 
We did but talk yon over, pledge you all 
In wassail; often, like as many girls — 
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home — 
As many little trifling Lilias — play'd 
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here. 
And what 's my thought and when and where 

and hoWf 
And often told a tale from month t« ncttlh 
As here at Christmas.' 



She remembered that; 
A pleasant game, she thought. 8be 

more 
Than magie music, forfeits, all the 
fiut these — what kind of ta&ee dii' 

men. 
She wonder'd, by themselTes ? 

Ahalf- 
Pereh'd on the pouted Uoeeom of her ^ 
And Walter nodded at me: ' He hegta^ ^ 
The rest would follow, each in torn; anifli 
We forged a sevenfold story. Kind ? m| 

kind? 
Chimeras, crotchets, Christmas sotociian; 
Seven-headed monsters only made to kfl 
Time by the fire in winter. 

The tyrant f kill him in the summer trnf 
Said Lilia; <Why not now?' the msata 

aunt. tm 

* Why not a summer's as a winter^s tale? 
A tale for summer as befits the time, 
And something it should be to suit te 

place. 
Heroic, for a hero lies beneath^ 
Grave, solemu I ' 

Walter warp'd his mouth at ttfai 
To something so mock-solemiiv that X 

lai^h'd. 
And Lilia woke with sudden-shrilling niiilB 
An echo like a ghostly woodpecker n* 
Hid in the ruins; till the maiden aunt — 
A little sense of wrong had toueh'd hv 

face 
With color — tum'd to me with 'As yoi 

will; 
Heroic if you will, or what yon will. 
Or be yourself your hero if you wilL* 

< Take Lilia, then, for heroine,' elamoi^d 

he, 
'And miJEc her some great prinoesiy wa 

feet high, 
Grand, epic, homicidal ; and be yoa at^ 
The prince to win her ! ' 

* Then follow me, the piinee 
I answer'd, * each be hero in his torn 1 
Seven and yet one, like shadows in • 

dream. — 
Heroic seems our princess as required — 
But something made to suit with tamo aad 

place, 
A Grothic ruin and a Grecian house, 
A talk of college and of ladies' rights, 
A feudal knight in silken masqumdei 



PART FIRST 



119 



fwidcr, dffMks and 8tnui|^ experi- 



^ieb Um food Sir Ralph liad burnt 

tkwaU — 
MTV a medlej I we should have him 

haek 330 

(old tho « Winter's Tale ** to do it for 

itter; we will saj whatever oomes. 
ei the ladies siog us, if thej will, 

n as breathing^pace. 

So I began, 
the rest followed; and the women 

Bca the roagher voices of the men, 
liaaeU in the pauses of the wind: 
bete I give the storj and the songs. 

I 

ioee I was, blue-ejed, and fair in face, 
mper amorous as the first of May, 
leagths of yellow ringlet, like a girl, 
my cradle shone the Northern star. 

ne lived an ancient legend in our 



sotee r e r, whom a far-o£f grandsire 

bamt 

m he cast no shadow, had foretold, 
f, that none of all our blood should 

kaow 
iadow from the substance, and that 



10 



i eome to fight with shadows and to 
fall; 

I, my mother said, the story ran. 
truly, waking dreams were, more or 
lesa, 

i and strange affection of the house. 
f too had weird seizures, Heaven 
knows what I 

■dden in the midst of men and day, 
hile I walk'd and talk'd as hereto- 
fore, 

I'd to move among a world of ghosts, 
^el myself the shadow of a dream. 
real eoort-Galen poised his gilt-head 



•w'd his beard, and mutter'd ' cata- 

lepay.' >o 

loUker pitying made a thousand 

prayers. 

Biber was as mild as any saint, 



by all that look'd on her. 
So gracious was her tact aud tenderness; 
But my ffood father thought a king a king. 
He oared not for the affection of the house; 
He held his sceptre like a pedant's wnnd 
To lash offence, and with long arms and 

hands 
Reach'd out and pick'd offenders from the 

mass 
For judgment 

Now it olianced that I had been, 
While life was yet in bud and blade, be- 
trothed jf 
To one, a neighboring Princess. She to me 
Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf 
At eight years old; and still from time to 

time 
Came murmurs of her beauty from the 

South, 
And of her brethren, youths of puissance; 
And still I wore her picture by my heart, 
And one dark tress; and all around them 

both 
Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about 

their queen. 

But when the days drew nigh that I 

should wed, 40 

My father sent ambassadors with furs 
And jewels, gifts, to fetch her. These 

brought back 
A present, a great labor of the loom; 
And therewithal sn answer vague as wind. 
Besides, they saw the king; he took the 

gifts; 
He said there was a compact; that was 

trup; 
But then she had a will; was he to blame ? 
And maiden fancies; loved to live alone 
Among her women; certain, would not wed. 

That morning in the presence room 1 

stood so 

With Cvril and with Florian, my two 

friends: 
The first, a gentleman of broken means — 
His father's fault — but given to starts and 

bursts 
Of revel ; and the last, my other heart, 
And almost my half-self, for still we moved 
Together, twinn'd as horse's ear and eye. 

Now, while they spake, I saw my father's 
faoe 
Grow long and troubled like a rising moon. 



120 



THE PRINCESS 



Inflftined with wrath. He started on hiB 

feet. 
Tore the king's letter, snow'd it down, and 

rent 60 

The wonder of the loom thro' warp and 

woof 
From skirt to skirt; and at the last he 

sware 
That he would send a hundred thousand 

men, 
And bring her in a whirlwind; then he 

chew'd 
The thrice-tum'd Xmd of wrath, and cook'd 

his spleen. 
Communing with his captains of the war. 

At last I spoke: < My father, let me go. 
It cannot be but some gross error lies 
In this report, this answer of a king 69 
Whom all men rate as kind and hospitable; 
Or, maybe, I myself, my bride once seen, 
Whate'er my grief to find her less than 

fame. 
May rue the bargain made.' And Florian 

said: 
* I have a sister at the foreign court, 
Who moves about the Princess; she, you 

know. 
Who wedded with a nobleman from thence. 
He, dying lately, left her, as I hear, 
The lady of three castles in that land; 
Thro' her this matter might be sifted 

dean.' 
And Cyril whisper'd: 'Take me with you 

too.' 80 

Then laughing, * What if these weird seiz- 
ures come 
Upon you in those lands, and no one near 
To point you out the shadow from the 

truth t 
Take me; I '11 serve you better in a strait; 
I grate on rusty hinges here.' But ' No ! ' 
Roar'd the rough king, *you shall not; we 

ourself 
Will crush her pretty maiden fancies dead 
In iron gauntlets; break the council up.' 

But when the council broke, I rose and 
past 

Thro' the wild woods that hung about the 
town; 90 

Found a still place, and pluck'd her like- 
ness out; 

Laid it on flowers, and watch'd it lying 
bathed 



In the g^reen gleam of dewy-tanell'd 
What were those fancies ? wheiefove 

her troth ? 
Proud look'd the lips; but while I 

tated 

A wind arose and msh'd apmi thm SontK 
And shook the songs, the whispen, and 

shrieks 

Of the wUd woods together, and a Yciot 
Went with it, • Follow, follow, thoa ' 

wm. 



m-: 



Then, ere the silver uckle of that 
Became her golden shield, I stole 

court 
With Cyril and with Florian, nnpei 
Cat-footed thro' the town and half bn 
To hear my father's clamor at oar bsdoi 
With < Ho ! ' from some bay-window 

the night; 

But all was quiet From the baatioo'd wik 
Like threaaed spiders, one by om^ wm 

dropt. 
And flying reach'd the frontier; then wm 

crost 
To a livelier land; and so by tilth mmA 

grange, 
And vines, and blowing bosks of wilder- 
ness, IS0 
We gain'd the mother-city thick witf* 

towers. 
And in the imperial palace found the kin^'-' 



His name was Ghuna; craok'd and 

his voice. 
But bland the smile that like a wrinkling 

wind 
On glassy water drove his cheek in lines; 
A little dry old man, without a star. 
Not like a king. Three days he feasted oi, 
And on the fourth I spake of why we came, 
And my betroth'd. 'You do us, Prinee,' 

he said. 
Airing a snowy hand and signet gem, tat 
* All honor. We remember love ouraelf 
In our sweet youth. There did a eompaet 

pass 
Long summers back, a kind of ceremony — 
I think the year in which our olives fail'd. 
I would you had her, Prince, with all my 

heart. 
With my full heart; but there were widows 

here, 
Two widows. Lady Psyche, Lady Blanche; 
They fed her theories, in and out of plaee 



PART FIRST 



III 



_ tint with equftl hasbandrj 
TW VMMB were an e<}iial to the man. tjo 
Tkij kttp'd oo thb; with this our banquets 

%m oaaeee brake and bnis'd in knots of 



talk; 

Minif bat thia; my rerj ears were hot 
Xi War them. Knowledge, so mj daughter 

held, 
Wm aU in all; they had but been, she 

thonght, 
Ai duldren; thej must lose the child, 



1W weman. Then, sir, awful odes she 



T« swfol, sore, for what the j treated of, 
lit ill ihe is and does is awful; odes 139 
4Wit this losing of the child; and rhymes 
Aid dismal lyrics, prophesying change 
Bmad sll reason. These the women sang; 
Am they that know such things — I sought 

bat peace; 
Is oiitio I — would call them master- 



Iky Bsster'd aw. At last she begg'd a 

A wtsia sommer-palaee which I haTC 
Hod W yoor father's frontier. I said no, 
Th bang an easy man, eave it; and there, 
AD wild to found an University 
F« Bsadeiis, on the spur she fled; and 

MQCe ISO 

Ws know not, — only this: they see no 



9it ma her brother Arac, nor the twins 
flvkethren, tho* they lore her, look upon 

her 
Asm a kind of paragon; and I — 
hiim me saying it — were much loth to 

breed 
betwixt myself and mine; but 



Aid I eoof ess with right — you think me 



h nee sort, I can give you letters to her; 
Aid jet, to speak the truth, I rate your 

ehasee 139 

ilbiit at naked nothing.' 

Thus the king; 
Aid I, tho' nettled that he seem'd to slur 
^A garmloos ease and oily courtesies 
tefbnaal eompact, yet, not less — sll frets 
Bet shaflng me on fire to find my bride — 
Wait for& again with both my friends. 

We rode 



Many a long league back to the North. 

At last 
From hills that look'd across a land of 

hope 
We dropt with CTcning on a rustic town 
Set in a gleaming riyer's crescent-curre. 
Close at the boundary of the liberties; 170 
There, enter'd an old hostel, esll'd mine 

host 
To council, olied him with his richest wines. 
And show'd the late-writ letters of the 

king. 

He with a long low sibilation, stared 
As blank as death in marble; then ez- 

daim'd. 
Averring it was clear against all rules 
For any roan to go; but as his brain 
Began to mellow, < If the king,' he said, 
' Had given us letters, was he bound to 

spe^k? 
The king would bear him out;' and at the 

last — 180 

The summer of the vine in all his veins — 
<No doubt that we might make it worth 

his while. 
She once had past that way; he beard her 

speak; 
She scared him; life t he never saw the 

like; 
She look'd as grand as doomsday and as 

grave! 
And he, he reverenced his liege-lady there; 
He always made a point to post with 

mares; 
HU daughter and hU housemaid were the 

boys; 
The land, he understood, for miles about 
Was till'd by women; all the swine were 

sows, 190 

And all the dogs ' — 

But while he jested thus, 
A thought flash'd thro' me which I clothed 

m act. 
Remembering how we three presented 

Maid, 
Or Nymph, or Goddess, at high tide of 

feast, 
In masque or paramt at my father's oonrt. 
We sent mine nost to purchase female 

He brought it, and himself, a sight to shake 
The midriff of despair with laughter, bolp 
To lace us up, till each in maiden plumes 
We rustled ; him we gave a costly Vribe aoo 



199 



THE PRINCESS 



T« gueTdxm silenoe, mounted our good 

steeds, 
And boldly Tentared on the liberties. 

We foUow'd ap the river as we rode, 
And rode till midnight, when the college 

lights 
Began to glitter firefly4ike in eopse 
And linden alley; then we past an arch, 
Whereon a woman-statue rose with wings 
From four wing'd horses dark against the 

stars, 
And some inscription ran along the front. 
But deep in shadow. Further on we gain'd 
A little street half garden and half house. 
But scarce could hear each other speak for 



noise 



aia 



Of clocks and chimes, like silver hammers 

idling 
On silver anvils, and the splash and stir 
Of fountains spouted up and showering 

down 
In meshes of the jasmine and the rose; 
Aud all about us peal'd the nightingale. 
Rapt in her song and careless of the snare. 

There stood a bust of Pallas for a sign. 
By two sphere lamps blazon'd like Heaven 

and Earth aao 

With constellation and with continent. 
Above an entry. Riding in, we call'd; 
A plump-arm'd ostleress and a stable wench 
Came running at the call, and help'd us 

down. 
Then stept a buxom hostess forth, and sail'd, 
Full-blown, before us into rooms which 

gave 
Upon a pillar'd porch, the bases lost 
In laurel. Her we ask'd of that and this, 
Aud who were tutors. * Lady Blanche.' 

she said, 
*And Lady Psyche.' 'Which was pret- 
tiest, 330 
Best natured?' <Lady Psyche.' * Hers 

are we,' 
One voice, we cried; and I sat down and 

wrote 
In such a hand as when a field of com 
Bows all its ears before the roaring East: 

'Three ladies of the Northern empire 



pray 
Hi 



Your Highness would enroll them with 

your own. 
As Lady Psyche's pupils,' 



This I seal' 
The seal was Cupid bent above a set 
And o'er his heaa Uranian Venus In 
And raised the blinding bandage fr 

eyes. 
I gave the letter to be sent with dai 
And then to bed, where half in 

seem'd 
To float about a glimmering nigl 

watch 
A full sea glazed with muffled mo 

swell 
On some dark shore just seen thai 

rich. 

As thro' the land at eve we went, 

And pluck'd the ripen'd ean. 
We fell out, my wife and I, 
O, we fell out, I know not why. 

And kiaa'd again with teaia. 
And blessinss on the falling oat 

That all we more endears, 
When we fall out with thoae we lo 

And Idas again with tears ! 
For when we came where lies the < 

We lost in other years. 
There above the little grave, 
O, there above the little grave. 

We kiss'd agaiu with teark 



II 

At break of day the College F 

came; 
She brought us academic silks, in hn 
The lilac, with a silken hood to each 
Aud zoned with gold; and now whei 

were on, 
And we as rich as moths from di 

coons, 
She, curtseying her obeisance, let us 
The Princess Ida waited. Out we \ 
I first, and following thro' the pen 

sang 
All round with laurel, issued in a 00 
Compact of lucid marbles, bo8s'< 

lengths 
Of classic frieze, with ample awning 
Betwixt the pillars, and with great 1 

flowers. 
The Muses and the Graces, grov 

threes, 
Enring'd a billowing fountain in the 
And here and there on lattice edges 
Or book or lute; but hastily we pasi 
And up a flight of stairs into the ha) 



PART SECOND 



"3 



Tkiit ai a boud bj tome and paper 

Witk two tame leopardi oooch'd beside 

barthrcnie, 
^ beaaty eompaaa'd in a female form, ao 
\; liker to the inhabitant 



m 



()f Mat elear pUnet close upon the sun, 
TkM oar man s earth; such eyes were i 

her head, 
id m mneh grace and power, breathing 

down 
fnm orer her arch'd brows, with erery 

tarn 
Livid thro' her to the tips of her long 



Asd to her feet. She rose her height, and 
mid: 

'W«nTe jou welcome; not without re- 

(KNind 

Of «tt sad glory to yonrseWes ye come, 
The fint-f niits of the stranger; aftertime, 
Aad tkst fall Toioe which circles round the 

fra?e, si 

WQl nak yon nobly, mingled np with me. 
WkatI are the ladies of your land so 

tall?' 
'We of the eoort,* said Cyril. * From the 

soort,' 
Ste isiwer'd, < then ye know the Prince ? ' 

snd he: 
*TW dimaz of his age I as tho' there 



(W rots in all the world, your Highness 

that. 
Ht woniiipg your ideal.' She replied: 
* Wt tesreely thought in our own hall to 



1W hmn verbiage, current among men, 
Ijf^ eoin, the tinsel dink of compliment. 
T« fijht from out your booklM. wUds 

would seem 
^ srgtting lo?e of knowledge and of 

power; 
iflvisagttaffe proves you still the child. 

Wt dream not of him; when we set our 



Ts tkb great work, we purposed with our- 

seif 
Suffer to wed. You likewise will do well, 
Lsdiss, in entering here, to cast and fling 
1W tricks which make us toys of men, 

that so 

fatare time, if so indeed you will, 90 



Ton may with those self-styled our lords 

ally 
Tour fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with 

scale.' 

At those high words, we, conscious of 

ourselves, 
Perused the matting; then an officer 
Rose up, and read the statutes, such as 

these: 
Not for three years to correspond with 

home; 
Not for three years to cross the liberties; 
Not for three years to speak with any men; 
And manv more, which hastily subscribed. 
We enter d on the boards. And < Now,' she 

cried, 60 

' Ye are green wood, see ye warp not. 

Look, our hall I 
Our statues ! — not of those that men de- 
sire. 
Sleek Odalisques, or oracles of mode. 
Nor stunted squaws of West or £ast; but 

she 
That taught the Sabine how to rule, and 

she 
The foundress of the Babylonian wall. 
The Carian Artemisia strong in war. 
The Rliodope that built the pyramid, 
Clelia, Cornelia, with the Paimyrene 
That fought Anrelian. and tl>« Roman 

brows 70 

Of Agrippina. Dwell with these, and lose 
Convention, since to look on noble forms 
Makes noble thro' the sensuous organism 
That which is higher. O, lift your natures 

up; 
Embrace our aims; work out your freedom. 

Girls, 
Knowledge is now no more a fountain 

sealed 1 
Drink deep, until the habits of the slave. 
The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite 
And slander, die. Better not be at all 
Than not be noble. Leave us; you may 

go. 80 

To-day the Lady Psvche will harangue 
The fresh arrivals of the week before; 
For they press in from all the provinces. 
And fiU the hive.' 

She spoke, and bowing waved 
Dismissal ; back again we crost tlie court 
To Lady Psyche's. As we enter'd in. 
There sat along the forms, like morning 

doves 



"4 



THE PRINCESS 



That sun their milky boBoma on the thatch, 
A patient range of pupils; she herself 
Erect behind a desk of satin-wood, 90 

A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon- 
eyed, 
And on the hither side, or so she look'd, 
Of twenty summers. At her left, a child, 
In shining draperies, headed like a star, 
Her maiden babe, a double April old, 
Aglai'a slept. We sat; the lady glanced; 
Then Florian, but no livelier than the 

dame 
That whisper'd 'Asses' ears' among the 

sedge, 
* My sister/ * Comely, too, by all that 's 
fair,' 99 

Said Cyril. * O, hush, hush I ' and she began. 

*This world was once a fluid haze of 
Hght, 

Till toward the centre set the starry tides, 

And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast 

The planets; then the monster, then the 
man; 

Tattoo'd or woaded, winter-clad in skins, 

Raw from the prime, and crushing down 
his mate, 

As yet we find in barbarous isles, and here 

Among the lowest' 

Thereupon she took 

A bird's-eye view of all the ungracious 
past; 

Glanced at the legendary Amazon no 

As emblematic of a nobler age ; 

Appraised the Lycian custom, spoke of 
those 

That lay at wine with Lar and Luoumo; 

Ran down the Persian, Grecian, Roman 
lines 

Of empire, and the woman's state in each. 

How far from just; till warming with her 
theme 

She fulmined out her scorn of laws Salique 

And little-footed China, touch'd on Ma- 
homet 

With much contempt, and came to chiv- 
alry. 

When some respect, however slight, was 
paid 120 

To woman, superstition all awry. 

However, then commenced the dawn; a 
beam 

Had slanted forward, falling in a land 

Of promise; fruit would follow. Deep, 
indeed, 



Their debt of thanks to her who flnt 

dared 
To leap the rotten pales of prejudice, 
Disyoke their necks from ooBtom, and as- 
sert 
None lordlier than themselves bat that 

which made 
Woman and man. She had founded; tliej 

must build. 
Here might they learn whatever men were 

taught. S30 

Let them not fear, some said their heads 

were less; 
Some men's were small, not they the lent 

of men; 
For often fineness compensated sixe. 
Besides the brain was like the haod, and 

g^w 
With using; thence the man's, if more wu 

more. 
He took advantage of his strength to be 
First in the field; some ages htSi been lost; 
But woman ripen'd earlier, and her life 
Was longer; and albeit their glorious 

names 
Were fewer, scatter'd stars, yet since in 

truth 140 

The highest is the measure of the maiit 
And not the KafiBr, Hottentot, Malay, 
Nor those horn -handed breakers of the 

glebe. 
But Homer, Plato, Verulam, even so 
With woman; and in arts of government 
Elizabeth and others, arts of war 
The peasant Joan and others, arts of grace 
Sappho and others vied with any man; 
Ana, last not least, she who had left her 

place, 
And bow'd her state to them, that they 

might g^w ijo 

To use and power on this oasis, lapt 
In the arms of leisure, sacred from the 

blight 
Of ancient influence and scorn. 

At last 
She rose upon a wind of prophecy 
Dilating on the future: * everywhere 
Two heads in council, two beside the 

hearth. 
Two in the tangled business of the worid. 
Two in the liberal offices of life. 
Two plummets dropt for one to soond the 

abyss 
Of science and the secrets of the mind; tte 
Musician, painter, sculptor, critic, more; 



PART SECOND 



"S 



iod eroTwhere the broad and bounteous 

£uth 
Sbodd bear a double growth of those rare 

loalBy 
Bk^ wboee thoughts enrich the blood of 

the world.' 

She ended here, and beckon'd us; the 

rest 
hited; and, ^wing full-faoed welcome, 

she 
Began to address us, and was moving on 
la gittulation, till as when a boat 
Ti^ and the slackened sail flaps, all her 

Toiee 
Faltering and fluttering in her throat, she 

ened, 170 

'My brother I ' • Well, my sister.' * O,* 

she said, 
'What do you here ? and in this dress ? 

and these? 
Why, who are these? a wolf within the 

fold! 
A pack of wolves ! the Lord be gracious 

tome 1 
A plot, a plot, a plot, to ruin all ! ' 
* No plot, no plot,' he answer'd. * Wretched 
„ l»y. 
How law jon not the mscnption on the 

gate. 
Let ko mak enteb m on pain of 

DEATH?' 

'And if I had,' he answer'd, * who could 

think 
The softer Adams of your Academe, 180 
sister. Sirens tho' they be, were such 
As chanted on the blanching bones of 

men?' 
'Bat you will find it otherwise,' she said. 
'Ton jest; ill jesting with edge-tools 1 my 

TOW 

Binds me to speak, and O that iron will, 
'Hat azelike edge untumable. our Head, 
The Princess ! ' * Well then. Psyche, take 

my life. 
And uul me like a weasel on a grange 
For warning; bury me beside the gate. 
And oat thu epitaph above my bones: 190 
Bm Ua a hroiher hy a sister slmn^ 
^Ufor ike common good of toomanJcind* 
'Let me die too,* said Cyril, ' having seen 
Aod heard the Lady Psyche.* 

I struck in: 
'Alhdt so mask'd, madam, I love the 

troth; 



Receive it, and in me behold the Prince 
Your countryman, afi&anced years ago 
To the Lady Ida. Here, for here sne was. 
And thus — what other way was left ? — I 

came.' 
'O sir, O Prince, I have no country, 

none; aoo 

If any, this; but none. Whate'er I was 
Disrooted, what I am is grafted here. 
Affianced, sir ? love-whispers may not 

breathe 
Within this vestal limit, and how should I, 
Who am not mine, say, live ? The thun- 
derbolt 
Hangs silent; but prepare. I speak, it 

falls.' 
* Tet pause,' I said: ' for that inscription 

there, 
I think no more of deadly lurks therein. 
Than in a clapper clapping in a garth, 
To scare the fowl from fruit; if more 

there be, 210 

If more and acted on, what follows ? war; 
Your own work marr'd; for this your 

Academe, 
Whichever side be victor, in the halloo 
Will topple to the trumpet down, and pass 
With all fair theories only made to gild 
A stormless summer.' 'Let the Aincess 

judge 
Of that,' she said: 'farewell, sir — and to 

you. 
I shudder at the sequel, but I go.' 

* Are you that Lady Psyche,' I rejoin'd, 
' The fifth in line from that old Florian« 220 
Yet hangs his portrait in my father's hall — 
The gaunt old baron with his beetle brow 
Sun-shaded in the heat of dusty fights — 
As he bestrode my grandsire, when he fell, 
And all else fled ? we point to it, and we 

say, 
The loyal warmth of Florian is not cold. 
But branches current yet in kindred veins.* 
' Are you that Psyche,' Florian added; ' she 
With whom I sang about the morning 

hills. 
Flung ball, flew kite, and raced the purple 

fly, 230 

And snared the squirrel of the glen ? are 

you 
That Psyche, wont to bind my throbbing 

brow. 
To smooth my pillow, mix the foaming 

draught 



I2i 



THE PRINCESS 



Of fever, tell me pleasant tales, and read 
My sickness down to happy dreams ? are 

yon 
That brother-sister Psyche, both in one ? 
You were that Psyche, but what are you 

now?' 
'Ton are that Psyche,' Cyril said, *for 

whom 
I would be that forever which I seem. 
Woman, if I might sit beside your feet, 240 
And glean your scatter'd sapienee.' 

Then once more, 

* Are yon that Lady Psyche,' I began, 

* That on her bridal morn before she past 
From all her old companions, when the king 
Kiss*d her pale cheek, declared that an- 
cient ties 

Would still be dear beyond the southern 

hills; 
That were there any of our people there 
In want or peril, there was one to hear 
And help them ? look I for such are these 

andl.* 
< Are yon that Psyche,' Florian ask'd, * to 

whom, 250 

In gentler days, your arrow-wounded &kwn 
Came flying while you sat beside the well ? 
The creature laid his muzzle on your lap 
And sobb*d, and you sobb'd with it, and 

the blood 
Was sprinkled on your kirtle, and you 

wept. 
That was fawn's blood, not brother's, yet 

yon wept. 
O, by the bright head of my little niece, 
You were that Psyche, and what are you 

now?' 

* You are that Psyche,' Cyril said again, 

' The mother of the sweetest little maid 260 
That ever crow'd for kisses.' 

< Out upon it ! ' 
She answered, ' peace I and why should I 

not play 
The Spartan Mother with emotion, be 
The Lucius Junius Brutus of my kind ? 
Him yon call great; he for the common 

weal, 
The fading politics of mortal Rome, 
As I might slay this child, if good need 

were, 
Slew both his sons; and I, shall I, on 

whom 
The secular emancipation turns 
Of half this world, be swerved from right 

to save ayo 



A prince, a brother ? a little will I yield. 
Beet so, perchance, for us, and wl h 

you. 
O, hard when love and duty elaah ! I Cm 
My conscience will not ooant me flueHiM 

yet — 
Hear my conditions: promise — Mnwm 
You perish — as yon came, to alip awejr 
To-day, to- morrow, soon. It shall be add 
These women were too barbeioas, wnIi 

not learn; 
They fled, who might have iliaBied ■ 

Promise, alL' 

What could we else, we promised eick 

and she, li 

Like some wild creature newly-caged, eoa 

menced 
A to-and-f ro, so pacing till she paused 
By Florian; holding out her lily anns 
Took both his hands, and smiliog hM, 

said: 
<I knew you at the first; tho' yon ha? 

grown 
You scarce have alter'd. I am nd as 

glad 
To see you, Florian. / give thee to deati 
My brother ! it was duty spoke, not I. 
My needful seeming harshness, pardon it 
Our mother, is she well ? ' 

With that she kiss 
His forehead, then, a moment after, clani 
About him, and betwixt them blossom 

up 3 

From out a common vein of memory 
Sweet household talk, and phrases of tl 

hearth, 
And far allusion, till the gfracious dews 
Began to glisten and to fall; and while 
They stood, so rapt, we gazing, came 

voice, 
*I brought a message here from Lai 

Blanche.' 
Back started she, and turning round i 

saw 
The Lady Blanche's daughter where d 

stood, 1 

Melissa, with her hand upon the lock, 
A rosy blonde, and in a college gown. 
That clad her like an April daffodilly — 
Her mother's color — with her lips apart, 
And all her thoughts as fair within h 

eyes. 
As bottom agates seen to wave and float 
In orystal currents of clear morning 



PART SECOND 



127 



Biitood tlMt 



fair eieature at the 



Tin Lftdj Fijebe, ' Ah — MeliMa — you ! 
1« kmd ot ? ' and Meliwai ' O, paj^on 
■mI 310 

Ikud, I oovld not help it, did not wish; 
Bil,4eaMt ladj, praj joo fear me not, 
Sm thiak I baar that heart within mj 



Tigife three gallant gentlemen to death.' 
*Itmt JOO,' said the other, * for we two 
Hm tlwajs f riendsy none closer, elm and 

fine; 
Bit yet joar mother's jealons tempen^ 

Bwnt — 
Ut Mt jour prudence, dearest, drowse, or 



1W Dsnald of a leaky vase, for fear 

11» whole foundation ruin, and I lose 330 

M; kaor, these their lives.' ' Ah, fear me 

lipfitd Melissa; * no — I would not tell, 

Vi^ sot for all Aspasia's cleverness, 

K«h lot to answer, madam, all those hard 

things 
IWt Sbeba came to ask of Solomon.' 
'Bi it M,' the other, <that we still may 

kad 

IW sew light up, and culminate in peace, 
F« Solotton may come to Sheba yet.' 
find Crril, * Madam, he the wisest man 
Fmtoithe woman wisest then, in halls 330 
Of LebsMHiian cedar; nor should you — 
Ths*, ttadam, jfou should answer, we would 

ask — 
Lm veleoaie find among us, if you came 
Aaoag OS, debtors for our lives to you, 
Mjvli for something more.' He said not 

ta * Thanks,' she answered, ' go; we have 

been too long 
Tofrther; keep your hoods about' the face; 
TWy do so that affect abstraction here. 
Sptak little; mix not with the rest; and 

hold 
Tsar promise. All, I trust, may yet be 

welL 340 

Wit tam'd to go, but Cyril took the 
child. 
And beUL her round the knees against his 



And biaw the swollen cheek of a trumpeter, 
Waik PiiTche watch'd them, smiling, and 
^ child 



Push'd her flat hand against his taee and 

laugh'd; 
And thus our conference closed. 

And then we strolled 
For half the day thro' stately theatres 
Bench'd crescent-wise. In each we sat, we 

heard 
The grave professor. On the lecture slate 
The circle rounded under female hands 350 
With flawless demonstration; follow'd then 
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, 
With scraps of thuuderous epic lilted out 
By violet-nooded Doctors, elegies 
And quoted odes, and jewels five- words- 
long 
That on the stretch'd forefinger of all 

Time 
Sparkle forever. Then we dipt in all 
Tnat treats of whatsoever is, the state. 
The total chronicles of man, the mind, 
llie morals, something of the frame, the 

rock, 360 

The star, the bird, the fish, the shell, the 

flower. 
Electric, chemic laws, and all the rest. 
And whatsoever can be taught and known; 
Till like three horses that have broken 

fence, 
And glutted all night long breast-deep in 

com. 
We issued gorged with knowledge, and I 

spoke: 

* Why, sirs, they do all this as well as we.' 
'They hunt old trails,' said Cyril, 'very 

well; 
But when did woman ever yet invent ? ' 
*' Ungracious I ' auswer'd Florian ; < have you 

learnt 370 

No more from Psyche's lecture, you that 

talked 
The trash that made me sick, and almost 

sad?' 

* O, trash,' he said, ' but with a kernel in it! 
Should I not call her wise who made me 

wise ? 
And learnt ? I learnt more from her in a 

flash 
Than if my brainpan were an empty hull. 
And every Muse tumbled a science in. 
A thousand hearts lie fallow in these halls. 
And round these halls a thousand baby 

loves 
Fly twanging headless arrows at the hearts, 
Whence follows many a vacant pang; 

but O, i«« 



128 



THE PRINCESS 



With me, sir, enter'd in the bieger boj, 
The head of all the golden-shaited firm, 
The long-limb'd lad that had a Psyche too; 
He cleft me thro' the stomacher. And now 
What think yon of it, florian ? do I chase 
The substance or the shadow ? will it 

hold? 
I ha?e no sorcerer's malison on me. 
No ghostly hauntings like his Highness. I 
Flatter myself that always everywhere 390 
I know the substance when I see it Well, 
Are castles shadows? Three of them? 

Is she 
The sweet proprietress a shadow ? If not, 
Shall tiiose three castles patch my tatter'd 

coat? 
For dear are those three castles to my wants, 
And dear is sister Psyche to my heart. 
And two dear things are one of double 

worth; 
And much I might hare said, bat that my 

zone 
Unmanned me. Then the Doctors I O, to 

hear 
The Doctors! O, to watch the thirsty 

plants 400 

Imbibing I once or twice I thonght to roar, 
To break my chain, to shake my mane; but 

thou, 
Modulate me, soul of mincing mimicry f 
Make liquid treble of that bassoon, my 

throat; 
Abase those eyes that ever loved to meet 
Star -sisters answering under crescent 

brows; 
Abate the stride which speaks of man, and 

loose 
A flying charm of blushes o'er this cheek, 
Where they like swallows coming out of 

time 
Will wonder why they came. But hark the 

bell 410 

For dinner, let us go ! ' 

And in we stream'd 
Among the colnnms, pacing staid and still 
By twos and threes, till all from end to end 
With beauties every shade of brown and 

fair 
In colors g^yer than the morning mist. 
The long hall glitter'd like a bed of flow- 
ers. 
How might a man not wander from his 

wits 
Pierced thro' with eyes, but that I kept 

mine own 



Intent on her, who rapt in _ 

The seoond-sieht of some Astnean age, 

Sat compass'd with profesaon; they, Um 

while, 
Discuss'd a doubt and tost it to and fro. 
A clamor thicken*d, mixt with inmost terma 
Of art and scienee; Ladv Blaoehe alone 
Of faded form and haughtiest linMunesfeBt 
With all her autumn tresses falsely bioivsi 
Shot sidelong daggers at as, a tigor-eai 
In act to spnng. 

At last a solemn gnoo 
Concluded, and we sought the garde 

There 
One walk'd reciting by herself, and one 
In this hand held a volume as to read. 
And smoothed a petted peacock down witb 

that 
Some to a low song oar'd a shallop by, 
Or under arches of the marble bridge 
Hung, shadow'd from the heat; some bid 

and sought 
In the orange thickets; others tost a ball 
Above the fountain-jets, and back again 
With laughter; others lay abont the lawu, 
Of the older sort, and murmor'd that their 

Majr 
Was passing — what was learning onto 

them? 4^ 

They wish'd to many; they ooald rule a 

house; 
Men hated learned women. But we three 
Sat mufBed like the Fates; and often came 
Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts 
Of gentle satire, kin to charity. 
That harm'd not Then day droopt; the 

chapel bells 
Call'd us; we left the walks; we mixt with 

those 
Six hundred maidens clad in purest white. 
Before two streams of light from wall to 

wall. 
While the great organ almost burst his 

pipes, 45» 

Groaning for power, and rolling thro' the 

court 
A long melodious thunder to the soond 
Of solemn psalms and silver litanies. 
The work of Ida, to call down from heaven 
A blessing on her labors for the world. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low. 

Wind of the western sea. 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western seal 



PART THIRD 



199 



Ovw tk* rallmir waters go, 
Gmm tram th« dying moon, and blow, 
Blow lum agmin to me ; 
mii BT little oooy while my pretty one 

ileope» 

Snp and fwt, ileep and reat. 
Father will eome to thee aoon ; 

BhI, net, OB nother'a breast, 
hilhsr will eosse to thee soon ; 

Fblhsr will eosse to hie babe in the nest, 

fiiher asila aU oot of the west 
Under the silTsr moon ; 
Shi|,Bylittls (MM»aleep,my pretty one, sleep. 



Ill 
Mm in the white wake of the morning 



Case faifowing all the orient into gold. 
Ws rose, and each by other drest with 



P^wudud to the coort that lay three parts 
h ahadow, but the Muses' heads were 

tooeh'd 
ibffs the darkness from their native East 

Ihne while we stood beside the fount, 
and watcli'd 
Or seem'd to wateh the dancing bubble, 

approach'd 
MrlJMS, tinged with wan from lack of 

sleep. 
Or grief» and glowing roand her dewy 

fO 



The ciieled Iris of a night of tears; 

Amd ' Fly,' die eried, ' O fly, while yet yon 

mayl 
Mj flMther knows.' And when I ask'd her 

'how/ 
* My faulty' she wept, ' my fault ! and yet 



Yet nuae in part. O^ hear me, pardon me ! 
My Bother,\is her wont from night to 

mgfat 
To nil at Lady IVyohe and her side. 
She says the Prinoess should have been the 

Head, 
Btndf and Lady Psyche the two arms; 19 
Amd so it was agreed when first they came; 
B«t Lady Frrehe was the right hand now, 
And she the left, or not or seldom used; 
Hers more than half the students, all the 

low. 
Amd so last night she fell to enuTass you. 
Bar eo watfj women ! she did not enrj her. 



*' Who ever saw such wild barbarians ? 

Girls ? — more like men ! " and at these 
words the snake, 

My secret, seem'd to stir within my breast; 

And O, sirs, could I help it, but my cheek 

Began to bum and bum, and her lynx eye 

To fix and make me hotter, till she laueh'd: 

« O marvellously modest maiden, yon f 3> 

Men I girls, like men ! why, if they had 
been men 

You need not set your thoughts in mbric 
thus 

For wholesale comment.** Pardon, I am 
shamed 

That I must needs repeat for my excuse 

What looks so little graceful: ** men " — for 
still 

My mother went revolving on the word — 

''And so they are, — very like men in- 
deed — 

And with that woman closeted for hours ! ** 

Then came these dreadful words out one 
by one, 41 

" Why — these — are — men; ** I shud- 
dered; '< and you know it." 

" O, ask me nothing," I said. " And she 
knows too. 

And she conceals it." So my mother 
dutch'd 

The troth at once, but with no word from 
roe; 

And now thus early risen she goes to in- 
form 

The Princess. Lady Psyche will be crubh'd; 

But you mny yet be saved, and therefore 

fly; 

But heal me with your pardon ere you go.' 

'What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a 

blush ? * so 

Said Cyril: 'Pale one, blush again; than 



Those lilies, better blush our lives away. 
Yet let us breathe for one hour more in 

heaven,* 
He added, ' lest some classic ftngel speak 
In soora of us, " They mounted, Ganymedes, 
To tumble, Vulcans, on the second mom.** 
But I will melt this marble into wax 
To yield us farther furlough; ' and he went 

Melissa shook her doubtful enrls, and 
thought 
He scarce would prosper. *Tell ns,' Flo- 
rianask'd, 6b 



»3<> 



THE PRINCESS 



'How grew this feud betwixt the right and 

left.' 
*0, long ago,' she said, ' betwixt these two 
Diyision smoulders hidden; 'tis mj mother. 
Too jealous, often fretful as the innd 
.Pent in a crevice: much I bear with her. 
I never knew mj father, but she says — 
€rod help her! — she was wedded to a fool ; 
And stiU she raU'd against the state of 

things. 
She had the care of Lad j Ida's youth. 
And from the Queen's decease isJie brought 

her up. 70 

But when yuur sbter came she won the 

heart 
Of Ida; they were still together, grew — 
For so they said themselves — inosculated; 
Consonant chords that shiver to one note; 
One mind in all things. Yet my mother still 
AfiBrms your Psyche thieved her theories. 
And angled with them for her pupil's love; 
She calb her plagiarist, I know not what. 
Diit I must go; I dare not tarry,' and light, 
As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled. 80 

Then murmur'd Florian, gazing after 
her: 

* An open-hearted maiden, true and pure. 

If I could love, why this were she. How 
pretty 

Her blushing was, and how she blush'd 
again. 

As if to close with Cyril's random wish t 

Not like your Princess cramm'd with err- 
ing pride. 

Nor like poor Psyche wh<Hn she drags in 
tow.' 

' The crane,' I said, ' may chatter of the 

crane. 
The dove may murmnr of the dove, but I 
An eagle clane an eagle to the sphere, go 
My princess, O my princess ! true she errs. 
But in her own grand way; being herself 
Three times more noble than three score of 

men. 
She sees herself in every woman else. 
And so she wears her error like a crown 
To blind the truth and me. For her, and 

her, 
Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix 
The nectar; but — ah, she — whene'er she 

moves 
The Samian Herd rises, and she speaks 99 
A Memnon smitten with the morning sun.' 



So saying from the eoort we paced, laA 

gain'd 
The terrace ranged along the nottherm 

front. 

And leaning there on those balusters, hi^i 
Above the empurpled champaign, drank 

the gale 
That blown about the foliage ondemaatla^ 
And sated with the innumerable rote. 
Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither eaiv*^ 
Cyril, and yawning, ' O hard task,' he erie^' 
* No fighting shadows here. I forced a m^^J 
Thro' solid opposition crabb'd and gnarl'iE' 
Better to clear prime forests, heave acs^ 

thump i«s 

A league of street in summer solstice dowdy 
Than hammer at this reverend gentle- 
woman. 
I knocked and, bidden, enter'd; found hetr 

there 
At point to move, and settled in her eyea 
The ereen malignant light of coming atoniL 
Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well- 

oil'd. 
As man's could be; yet maiden-meek I 

pray'd 
Concealment. She demanded who we were, 
And why we came ? I fabled nothing fair. 
But, your example pilot, told her alL »i 
Up went the hush'd amaze of hand and Cjre. 
But when I dwelt upon your old affiance. 
She answer'd sharply that I talk'd astray. 
I nrg^ the fierce inscription on the gate. 
And our three lives. True — we had limed 

ourselves 
With open eyes, and we must take the 

chance. 
But such extremes, I told her, well might 

harm 
The woman's cause. "Not more than 

now," she said, 
*' So puddled as it is with favoritism." ijo 
I tried the mother's heart. Shame might 

befall 
Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew; 
Her answer was, "^ Leave me to deal with 

that" 
I spoke of war to come and many deaths, 
And she replied, her duty was to speak. 
And duty duty, clear of consequences. 
I grew discouraged, sir; but since I knew 
No rock so hard but that a little wave 
May beat admission in a thousand years, 
I recommenced: ** Decide not ere yon 

panse. m« 



PART THIRD 



13* 



Iki jM ben bot in tbe seoond place, 
Smm mj Uie third — the authentio foun- 

dieiijoa. 
I Ar boldlj; we will leat joa highest 
Wak at o«r adrent; help my prince to 



8hh pilao 



p 
1 



igfttf b1 bride, and here I promise jou 
pdaoe in our land, where you shall 
itign 

Ik hmd and heart of all our fair she- 
woridy 

Aid joar great name flow on wi(h broad- 
ening time 

Far tfer." Well, she balanced this a lit- 
tle, 149 

kd tsld me she would answer us to-day, 

Mctttime be mute; thus much, nor more I 



Hi eeasing, came a message from the 
Head. 

'IWt afternoon the Princess rode to take 
1W dip of certain strata to the north. 
Wodd we go wiUi her ? we should find the 

land 
Wiorth seeing, and the ri?er made a fall 
(kt yonder; ' then she pointed on to where 
k dnhle hill ran up bis furrowy forks 
Bsyoad the thick-leayed platans of the 
vale. 

Jigiced to, this, the day fled on thro' 
all 160 

lis tmnge of dnties to the appointed hour, 
sammon'd to the porch we went. She 
stood 

_ her maidens, higher by the head, 
Her baek against a pillar, her foot on one 
Of those tune leopards. Kitten-like he 

ron*d 
And paw'd about her sandal. I drew near; 
I gawd. On a sudden my strange seizure 



^on me, the weird Tision of onr honse. 
Tae Princees Ida seem'd a hollow show. 
Her gar-fnrr'd cats a painted fantasy, 170 
Her ecMlcge and her maidens empty masks. 
And I myself the shadow of a dmim, 
Far all things were and were not Yet I 

felt 
My heart beat thick with passion and with 



from my breast the involuntary sigh 
, 9M she smote me with the light of 
•yea 



That lent my knee desire to kneel, and 

shook 
My pulses, till to horse we got, and so 
Went forth in long retinue following up 
The river as it narrow'd to the hills. 180 

I rode beside her and to me she said: 
' O friend, we trust that you esteem'd us 

not 
Too harsh to your companion yestermom; 
Unwillingly we spake.' • No — not to her,* 
I answer*d, * but to one of whom we spake 
Your Highness might have seem*d the thing 

you say.' 
'Again?' she cried, 'are you ambassa« 

dresses 
From him to me? we give you, being 

strange, 
A license; speak, and let the topic die.' 

I stammer'd that I knew him — could 
have wisb'd — 190 

* Our king expects — was there no precon- 
tract? 
There is no truer-hearted — ah, yon seem 
All he prefigured, and he could not see 
The bind of passage flying south but long'd 
To follow. Surely, if vour Highness keep 
Your purport, you will shock him even to 

death, 
Or baser courses, children of despair.' 

' Poor boy,' she said, ' can he not read — 

no books ? 
Quoit, tennis, ball — no games ? nor deals 

in that 
Which men delight in, martial exercise ? 
To nurse a blind ideal like a girl, am 

Methinks ho seems no better than a girl; 
As girls were once, as we ourself hare been. 
We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with 

them. 
We touch on onr dead self, nor shun to do 

Being other — smee we learnt our meanmg 

here. 
To lift the woman's fallen divinitT 
Upon an even pedestal with man.' 

She paused, and added with a haughtier 

smile, 
'And as to preeontraots, we move, my 

friend, a 10 

At no man*8 beck, but know oortelf and 

thee. 



t3« 



THE PRINCESS 



Vaahti, noble Yashti I Sammon'd oat 
6he kept her state, and left the drunken 

king 
To brawl at ShoBban underneath the 
palms.' 

' AiMB, your HighneM breathes f nU East,' 
I said, 

* On that which leans to you ! I know the 

Prince, 

1 prize his truth. And then how vast a 

work 
To assail this gray preeminence of man ! 
You grant me license; might I use it ? 

think; 
Ere half be done perchance your life may 

faQ; aao 

Then comes the feebler heiress of your 

plan. 
And takes and ruins all; and thus your 

pains 
May only make that footprint upon sand 
Which old-recurring waves of prejudice 
Resmooth to nothing. Might I dread that 

jou, 
With only Fame for spouse and your great 

deeds 
For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss 
Meanwhile what every woman oounts her 

due, 
Love, children, happiness ? * 

And she exclaimM, 

* Peace, you young savage of the Northern 

wild I 230 

What ! tho' your Prince's love were like a 

god's, 
Have we not made ourself the sacrifice ? 
You are bold indeed; we are not talk'd to 

thus. 
Yet will we say for children, would they 

grew 
Like field -flowers everywhere! we like 

them well: 
But children die; and let me tell you, g^l, 
Howe'er you babble, great deeds cannot 

die; 
They with the sun and moon renew their 

light 
For ever, blessing those that look on them. 
Children — that men may pluck them from 

our hearts, 240 

Kill us with pity, break us with our- 
selves — 
O — children — there is nothing upon earth 
More miserable than she that has a sou 



And aeGs him err. Nor would we wotk im 

fame; 
Tho' she perhaps might reap the appbua 

of Great, 
Who learns the one pou sro wfaenoe aflop* 

hands 
May move the world, tho' she hueelf 

effect 
But little; wherefore up and aet, 

shrink 
For fear our solid aim be dissipated 
By frail, successon. Would, indeed, w« 

had been, 
In lieu of many mortal flies, a race 
Of giants living each a thousand yean, 
That we might see our own work oat, 

watch 
The sandy footprint harden into stone.* 

I answer'd nothing, doubtful in myself 
If that strange poet -princess with her 

grand 
Imaginations might at all be won. 
And she broke out interpreting my 

thoughts: 

* No doubt we seem a kind of monster 
to you; 
We are used to that; for women, up till 

this ate 

Cramp'd under worse than South-sea-isle 

taboo. 
Dwarfs of the gynsceum, fail so &r 
In high desire, they know not, cannot goess 
How much their welfare is a passion to us. 
If we could give them surer, quicker 

proof — 
O, if our end were less achievable 
By slow approaches than by single act 
Of immolation, any phase of death. 
We were as prompt to spring against the 

pikes. 
Or down the fiery gulf as talk oL it, ajo 
To compass our dear sisters' liberties.' 

She bow'd as if to veil a noble tear; 
And up we came to where the river sloped 
To plunge in cataract, shattering on black 

blocks 
A breadth of thunder. O'er it shook the 

woods, 
And danced the color, and, below, stuck 

out 
The bones of some vast bulk that lived 

and roard 



PART THIRD 



»33 



BiiHt man was. She gaied awhile and 



* Ai tbtM rade bonea to os, are we to her 
Hit will be.* «Dare we dream of that,' 

I adk'd, aSo 

*Wki0h WToya^t as, as the workman and 

kis won, 
Tktpiaetiee betters?* < How/ she cried, 

*7oo lore 
TW sKte|>bjsios f read and earn our prize, 
A foldea brooch* Beneath an emerald 

plane 
'I SU Diotima, teaching him that died 

Of kialoek — our deTioe, wrought to the 

Ufe — 
'f Sie npt upon her subject, he on her; 

For there are schools for alL* * And yet,' 

I Mid, 

' Metlimks I haTe not found among them 

sU ^ 

Oat iostomic* ' Naj, we thought of that,' 

Ske uuwer^d, * but it pleased us not; in 

tmth S91 

Wf ihadder but to dream our maids should 

ape 
ThoM moostroos males that carre the liv- 
ing hound, 
And cnm him with the fragments of the 

pave, 
Or b the dark dinolving human heart, 
Aad holy secrets of this microcosm, 
0d»bling a shameless hand with shameful 

Ef msliie tbeir spirits. Yet we know 
Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter 

hugs. 
Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty, yio 
Kor willing men should come among us, 

learnt. 
For manv weary moons before we came, 
Tkis craft of healing. Were you sick, our- 
self 
Woald tend upon yoo. To your question 



Wlndi toQcbes on the workman and hb 

work. 
LK there be light and there was light; 

H b so. 
For was, and is, and will be, are but is, 
Aad all creation b one act at once. 
The birth of light; but we that are not all, 
As parts, can see but parts, now this, now 

that, 310 

Aad live, perforce, from thought to 

thought, aft d t^^it 



One act a phantom of succession. Thus 
Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow. 

Time; 
But in the shadow will we work, and mould 
The woman to the fuller day.' 

She spake 
With kindled eyes: we rode a league be- 
yond. 
And, oer a bridge of pinewood crossing, 

came 
On flowery leveb underneath the crag, 
Full of all beauty. < O, how sweet,' I said,— 
For I was half-oblivious of my mask, — 390 
' To linger here with one that loved us 1 ' 

•Yea,' 
She answer'd, ' or with fur phUoeophies 
That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields 
Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian Uwns, 
Where paced the demigods of old, and 



The soft white vapor streak the crowned 

towers 
Built to the Son.' TImii. torning to hw 

maids, 
* Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward; 
Lay out the viands.' At the word, they 

raised 
A tent of satin, elaborately wrought 330 
With fair Corinna's triumph; here she 

stood. 
Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek. 
The woman-conqueror; woman-conquer'd 

there 
The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns. 
And all the men monm*d at hb side. But 

we 
Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril 

kept 
With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I 
With mine affianced. Many a little hand 
Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the 

rocks. 
Many a liebt foot shone like a jewel set 
In the dark crag. And then we tum'd, we 

wound 341 

About the cliffs, the oopses, out and in. 
Hammering and clinking, chattering stony 

names 
Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and 

tuff. 
Amygdaloid and trachyte, tUl the sun 
Grew broader toward hb death and fell, 

and all 
The rosy heights came out above the 

lawns. 



134 



THE PRINCESS 



The apleiidor falls on castle walla 

Ana snowy sammits old in story ; 
The Ions' light shakes aoroes the lakes, 
And uie wild cataiact leaps in g^ory. 
Blow, hngle, hlow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, hngle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O, hark, O, hear I how thin and dear. 
And thinner, dearer, farther going! 
O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly hlowing! 
Blow, let ns hear the purple glens replying. 
Blow, hi^le; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river ; 
Oar echoes roll from soal to soul. 
And grow for ever and for erer. 
Blow, hngle, hlow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
dying. 



IV 

* There sinks the nebnloas star we call the 

son, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be soand,' 
Said Ida; * let us down and rest; ' and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled preci- 
pices, 
By every coppice - feather'd chasm and 

deft, 
Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where 

below 
No bigger than a glowworm shone the 

tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd 

on me, 
Descending; once or twice she lent her 

hand. 
And blissful palpitations in the blood to 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and 

dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and enter'd in. 
There leaning deep in broider*d down we 

sank 
Our elbows; on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and 

gold. 

Then she, *Let some one sing to us; 
ligfatlier move 



The minutes fledged with mnaie; ' and a 

maid. 
Of those beside her, smote her hazp sod 

sang. w 

' Tears, idle tears, I know not what tiiey 
mean. 
Tears from the depth of some divine d e spair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy antumn-fialdB, 
And thinking of the days that are do 



' Fresh as the first beam glittering on a nil« 
That brings oor friends up from the nnderwoildt 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love bdow the veige ; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no mora. j» 

*Ah, sad and strange as in dark smamwr 

dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awaken*d birds 
To dying ears, when nnto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glinmieriag 

square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no morsb 

' Dear as remembered kisses after death. 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy f eign'd 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love. 
Deep as first love, and wild with all xegivt ; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!' 4S 

She ended with such passion that the 

tear 
She sang of shook and fell, an erring peail 
Lost in her bosom; but with some disdain 
Answer'd the Princess: 'If indeed then* 

haunt 
About the moulder'd lodges of the past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men. 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with 

wool 
And so pace by. But thine are fimeies 

hatch'd 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 50 

But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us eaeh 

and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of 

ice. 
Throne after throne, and molten on the 

waste 
Becomes a cloud; for all things serve their 

time 
Toward that great year of equal migfati 

and rights. 



PART FOURTH 



I3S 



tm woold I flght with iron laws, in the 

Find golden. Let the past be past, let be 
TVnr emeell'd Babels; tho' the rough kex 



Hi itsiT'd mosaio, and the beard-blown 

goat 60 

Hisg on the shaft, and the wild fig-tree 



nonstrons idols, care not while we 



A titnipet in the distance pealing news 
Of Wtter, and Hope, a poisingeagle, boms 
AboTS the unrisen morrow.' Then to me, 
'Kiov yon no song of your own land,' she 

nid, 
*Not such as moans about the retrospect. 
Bit dials with the other distance and the 

hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the 

wine?' 

IWtt I remember'd one myself had 

made, 70 

Wkt time I watoh'd the swallow winging 

soath 
Fiom mine own land, part made long since, 

and part 
Xow while I sai^, and maiden-like as far 
As I eoald ape their treble did I sing. 

*0 Swallow, Swallow, fl3niiK'« fi3n]igioath, 
Fly to h«r. and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 



* O. tell her. Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
Thai bffiirht and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. &> 

' O Swallow, Swallow, if I oonld follow, and 
lifht 
Vpam her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 

and twitter twenty million loreo. 



* O, were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her booom, and her heart 
Wonld rock the snowy cradle till I died I 

*■ Whr lingereth ihe to clothe her heart with 
wre, 
Dtlaying as the tender aah delays 
To tlo&B herself, when all the woods are 

r 



* O, «^ Imt, SwaOow, that thy brood is flown ; 
B&f to her, I do bat wanton in the Sonth, 91 
Bit m the North long since my 



' O, toll her, brief is life bnt love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

* O Swallow, flying from the edden woods. 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and nu^ 

her mine. 
And toll her, tell her, that I follow thee.' 



I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each. 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 100 
Stared with p^reat eyes, and laughed with 

alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant; for still 

my voice 
Rang false. But smiling, * Not for thee,' 

she said, 
* O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil; marsh-divers, rather, 

maid. 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow- 
crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass — and 

this 
A mere love-poem ! O, for such, my friend. 
We hold them slight; they mind ns of the 

time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves 

are men, no 

That lute and flute fantastic tenderness. 
And dress the victim to the offering up. 
And paint the gates of Hell with nradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul I I had a maid of honor once; 
She wept her tme eyes blind for such a 

one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 
1 loved her. Peace be with her. She is 

dead. 
So thev blaspheme the muse I Bnt great 

IS song 
Used to great ends; onrself have often 

tried isc 

Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have 

dashM 
The passion of the prophetess; for song 
Is dner unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit, than to junketing and love. 
Love is it? Would this same mock-love, 

and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats. 
Till all men grew to rate ns at our worth. 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, bat living wills, aad 

•phered 



13^ 



THE PRINCESS 



YHiole in oonelyes and owed to none. 
Enough ! 130 

But now to leaven play with profit, yon, 

Know you no song, the true growth of your 
•oil, 

That gives the manners of yonr country- 
women ? ' 

She spoke and tum'd her sumptuous head 

with eyes 
Of shining expectation fizt on mine. 
Then whue I dragg'd my brains for such a 

song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-month'd glass 

had wrought, 
Or mastered by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experi- 
ences 140 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at 

him, 
I frowning; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and 

shook; 
The lilylike Melissa droop*d her brows. 
* Forbear,' the Princess cried; 'Forbear, 

sir,' I; 
And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and 

love, 
I smote him on the breast. He started up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sack'd; 
Melissa cUmor'd, 'Flee the death;' 'To 

horse f ' 
Said Ida, ' home I to horse ! ' and fled, as 

flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk 
When some one batters at the dovecote 

doors, 151 

Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cvril, vext at heart 
Id the pavilion. There like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me; hoof by 

hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clang'd on the bridge; and then another 

shriek, 
< The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the 

Head ! ' 
For blind with rage she miss'd the plank, 

and roll'd 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to 

gloom; 160 

There whirl'd her white robe like a blos- 

som'd branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall. A glance I gave. 
No more, but woman-vested as I was 



Plunged, and the flood drew; yet I ^ang^ 

her; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in mj left 
The weight of all the hopes <Kf half the 

world. 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half -disrooted from his place and 

stoop'd 
To drench his dark locks in the gurgling 

wave 
Mid-channeL Right on this we droTe and 

caught, i7« 

And grasping down the boughs I gmiii*d 

the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringlj 

eroup'd 
In the hollow bank. One reaching fbrwmid 

drew 
My burthen from mine arms; they eried» 

'She lives.' 
They bore her back into the tent: hot I, 
So much a kind of shame within me 

wrought. 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes. 
Nor found my friends; but pash'd alone 00 

foot — 
For since her horse was lost I left hb. 

mine — 
Across the woods, and less from Indian 

craft tSo 

Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at 

length 
The garden portals. Two great statues, 

Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were 

valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and g^mly spiked the 

gates. 

A little space was left between the 

horns, 
Thro' which I clamber'd o'er at top with 

pain, 190 

Dropt 00 the sward, and up the linden 

walks. 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from 

hue to hue. 
Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had 

wheel'd 



PART FOURTH 



137 



Tknf a gvvat are liia MTen slow sans. 

A step 
Off l i g lrtwt adiOy then a loftier form 

feasale, moring thro' the onoertain 

vd me with the donbt 'if this were 



Florian. 'Hist, O, histl' he 



»k ns; oat so late is out of rales. 

r, ^Seiie the stnuigers" is the 

erj. aoi 

eame 70a here?' I told him. '1/ 

said be« 

of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whoa none ^take, half-sick at heart, 

retam'd. 
A i i i i u i g all oonfosed amone the rest 
With hooded brows I erept into the hall, 
And, eoaeh'd behind a Jadith, nndemeath 
The head of Holofenies peep'd and saw. 
Gill after girl was call'd to trial; each 
DiMiaam'd all knowledge of us; last of 

aU, aio 

Mtfini; tmst me, sir, I pitied her. 
Sks, qaestaoo'd if she knew us men, at first 
Wss alent; eloeer prest, denied it not, 
Aad then, demanded if her mother knew. 
Or fy^ehe, she affirm'd not, or denied; 
Fieai whenee the Royal mind, familiar 

with her, 
£ssilir gather'd either guilt. She sent 
Fer F^ehe, but she was not there; she 

eaU'd 
For Pnrehe's child to cast it from the 

doors; 

Ae tent for Blanche to aoeose her face to 

face; ajo 

And I slipt oot. But whither will jou now ? 

And where are Fsyehe, Cyril? both are 

fled; 
Whai« if together ? that were not so well. 
Wonld rather we had never come ! I dread 
His wildneM, and the chances of the dark.' 

* And yet,' I said, ' you wrong him more 

than I 
Thai straek him; this is proper to the 

etown, 
TW amoek'd, or furr'd and purpled, still 

the clown. 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to 

ahame 
Thai which he says he lores. For Cyril, 

howe'ar no 



He deal in frolic, as to-night — the song 
Might have been worse and sinn'd in 

grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon — as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament; 
But as the water-lily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Tho' anchor'd to the bottom, such is he.' 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tama* 
risk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 
' Names I ' 140 

He, standing still, was dutch'd; but I be- 
gan 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains. Fleet I was of foot; 
Before me shower'd the rose in flakes; be- 
hind 
I heard the puff'd pursuer; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not. 
And secret laughter tickled all my sooL 
At last I book*d my ankle in a vine 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, ajo 
And falling on my face was caught and 
known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she 

sat 
High in the hall ; above her droop'd a lamp. 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Bum like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm; a handmaid on each 

side 
Bow'd toward her, combing out her long 

black hair 
Damp from the river; and close behind her 

stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger 

than men. 
Huge women blowxed with health, and 

wind, and rain, ate 

And labor. Each was like a Druid rock; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wail'd about with 

mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing 
clove 
An advent to the throne; and therebeside. 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footeloth, lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the left. 



138 



THE PRINCESS 



Bow'd on her palms and folded up from 

wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her 

sohs, 270 

Melissa knelt; hot Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator: 

< It was not thus, O Princess, in old dajrs; 
Yon prized my counsel, lived upon my lips. 
I led you then to all the Castabes; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and yon me 
Your second mother, those were gracious 

times. 
Then came your new friend; you began to 

change — 
I saw it and grieved — to slacken and to 

cool; a8o 

Till taken with her seeming openness 
You tum*d your warmer currents all to 

her, 
To me you froze; this was my meed for 

all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love. 
And partly that I hoped to win you back. 
And partly conscious of my own deserts. 
And partly that you were my civil head. 
And chiefly you were bom for something 

great. 
In which I might your fellow-worker be. 
When time should serve; and thus a noble 

scheme 390 

Grew up from seed we two long since had 

sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd. 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun. 
We took this palace; but even from the 

first 
Yon stood in your own light and darken'd 

mine. 
What student came but that you planed her 

path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in 

all ? 
But still her lists were swell'd and mine 

were lean; 300 

Yet I bore up in hope she would l^e 

known. 
Then came these wolves; they knew her; 

they endured. 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn. 
To tell her what they were, and she to 

hear. 




And me none told. Not leas to an ^ye 

mine, 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their maak was patent, and 

foot 
Was to you. But I tbon^t again; I UtKf\ 
To meet a cold ** We thank yoo, we 

hear of it 
From Lady Psyche;" yoa had gone 

her, s 

She told, perforce, and winning easy 
No doubt, for slight delay, 

among ns 
In our young nursery still unknown, Ikr 

stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my Ima- 

est heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant baste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use required she ahoold bt 

known; 
And since my oath was ta'en for pnUk 

use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the 
I spoke not then at first, bnt watch'd 

well, tm 

Saw that they kept apart, no miarJiwf 

done; 
And yet this day — tho' yon should hate nt 

for it — 
I came to tell you ; found that yon had goiie^ 
Ridden to the hills, she likewise. Now, I 

thought. 
That surely she will speak; if not, then L 
Did she ? These monsters blazon'd what 

they were. 
According to the coarseness of their kind. 
For thus I hear; and known at last — my 

work — 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame — 
I grant in her some sense of shame — she 

flies; }}o 

And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I, that have wasted here health, wealth, and 

time. 
And talent, I — yon know it — I will not 

boast; 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan. 
Divorced from my experience, will be ehaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will 

say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can 

tread.' 



PART FOURTH 



139 



flw teaaed; the Prinoess answer'd coldly, 
•(kiod; 340 

TiViith it btt^n; we dismiss jou, go. 

IWtUilotI lamb' — she pointed to the 
eUld— 

*Oir mad 11 ehaosed; we take it to our- 
MJ 

IWnat the lady stretch'd a valture 
tbeat, 
lii ihoC from erooked lips a haggard 



*1W plan was mine. I bailt the nest,' she 

Mid, 
* To hatch the cackoo. Rise 1 ' and stoop'd 

teopdrag 
Mflii, bhe, half on her mother propt, 
Hatf-drooping from her, tum'd her face, 

ana cast 
A fiqaid look 00 Ida, full of prayer, 350 
Wm melted Florian's fancy as she hong, 
A Niobdbi daughter, one arm out, 
ApfwaKag to the bolts of heaven; and 

wmle 
Wf faied upon her came a little stir 
Ahoat the doors, and on a sudden rush'd 
AaMSf na, out of breath, as one pursued, 
A vonan-poat in flying raiment. Fear 
Stand in ner evea, and cbalk'd her face, 

and wini^d 
Her tnaait to the throne, whereby she fell 
Miffriag seal'd dispatches which the 
HmuI 360 

Took half-amaxed, and in her lion's mood 
Tor open, silent we with blind surmise 
RmniiBe. while ahe read, till over brow 
Am ebeek and boaom brake the wrathful 

bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
Wk. tl» wUd peasant ngbt. himwlf, the 

nek 
FIsBiea, and hia anger reddens in the hea- 
vens; 
For aiuper moat it seem'd, while now her 

Meast, 
Bsatea with some great passion at her 
heart, 3N 

Falpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
la Ibe dead hush the papers that she held 
Raatle. At ooce the lost lamb at her feet 
Seal oot a bitter bleatine for its dam. 
IW plaintive cry jarr'd on her ire; she 

eraan d 
TW aerolla together, made a sudden turn 
At if to apeak, bnt, ntteranee failing her, 



She whirl'd them on to me, as who should 

say 
'Read,' and I read — two letters — one 

her sire's: 

' Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince 

your way 
We knew uot your ungracious laws, which 

learnt, 380 

We, conscious of what temper you are 

built. 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but 

fell 
Into his father's hand, who has this night. 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you. 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son.' 

The second was my father's running 

thus: 
' You have our son; touch not a hair of his 

head; 
Render him up unscathed; give him your 

hand; 
Cleave to your contract — tho' indeed we 

hear 390 

You hold the woman is the better man; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their 

lords 
Thro' all the world, and which might well 

deserve 
That we this night should pluck your pal- 
ace down; 
And we will do it, unless you send ns back 
Our son, on the instant, whole.' 

So far I read , 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously: 

* O, not to pry and peer on your reserve. 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 400 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct; not a scomer of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be. Hear me, for I bear, 
Tho' man, yet human, whatsoe'er your 

wrongs. 
From the flio^en curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours. My nurse would tell 

me of you ; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon. 
Vague brightness; when a boy, yon stoop'd 

to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair 

lights, 4i« 



HO 



THE PRINCESS 



Came in long breezes rapt from inmost 

south 
And blown to inmost north; at eye and 

dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
Hie leader wild-swan in among the stars 
Wonld ching it, and lapt in wreaths of 

Slowworm light 
low breaker murmnr*d Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reach'd you, had jou 

been 
Sphered up with Cassiopeia, or the en- 
throned 
Persephone in Hades, now at length, 4<9 
rhose winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you; but, indeed. 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 

noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their oeutre. Let me say but this, 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And land^p, haye I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of presage; tho' when known, 

there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in yon I 

found 
My boyish dream inyolyed and dazzled 

down 430 

And mastered, while that after -beauty 

makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to 

hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here. 
According to your bitter statute-book, 

1 cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood; dying 

lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do, 
The breath of life; O, more than poor men 

wealth, 
Than sick men health — yours, yours, not 

mine — but half 440 

Without you; with you, whole ; and of those 

halyes 
You worthiest; and howe'er you block and 

bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I 

hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair. 
But in the teeth of clench'd antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die. 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.' 

0««. one knee 



Kneeling, I gaye it, which sbe maaAi, 

dash'd 
Unopen'd at her feet. A tide of fiene 
Inyectiye seem'd to wait behind her Iip% 
As ¥raits a riyer leyel with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world 

foam; 
And so she would haye spoken, bat 

rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gatber'd together; from the illnmined 
Long lanes of splendor slanted o'er a 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded eVe^ 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gernhb 

eyes. 
And gold and golden heads. They to and 

fro 4fo 

Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, aome red, 

some pale. 
All open-mouth'd, all gazing to the light, 
Some crying there was an army in the 

land. 
And some that men were in the yery waD^ 
And some they cared not; till a elamor 

grew 
As of a new-world Babel, womaii4Niilt, 
And worse-confounded. High aboye then 

stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking 



Not peace she look'd, the Head; bat 
ingup 
Robed in the long night of her deep lu^^, 

so 470 

To the open window moyed, remaining 

there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower aboye the wayes 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash tbemselyes dead. She stretch'd her 

arms and call'd 
Across the tumult, and the tumult felL 

* What fear ye, brawlers ? am not I yoar 

Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks; 

/dare 
All these male thunderbolts; what is it ye 

fear? 
Peace ! there are those to ayenge as and 

they come; 4^ 

If not, — myself were like enough, O girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights. 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of 
Or. falling, protomartyr of our canse. 



PART FOURTH 



HI 



Ki; Til I Uune yoa not so much for fear; 
fit thcBMiiid jears of fear have made yoa 

that 
f fOB wfaieh I would redeem yoa. But for 



Tbi itir thb hubbub — yoa and yon — I 

kMW 

TiirfiMee there in the crowd — to-morrow 



Wt kold a great oooTention; then shall 

they 470 

Tkt lofe their voices more than duty, 

learn 
Wkk whom they deal» dismiss'd in shame 

to live 
Vo wiMr than their mothers, household 

itofr, 
lifs chattels, mincers of each other's fame, 
FiU of weak poison, turnspits for the 

down, 
Ths drmnkard*s football, laughing^tocks 

of Time, 
Whns brains are in their hands and in 

their heels. 
Bat fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to 

thrum. 
To truup, to scream, to burnish, and to 



f 499 

For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.' 



She, ending, waved her hands; thereat 

the crowd 
Matternig, dissolved; then with a smile, 

that look'd 
A stroke of ernel sunshine on the difP, 
When all the glens are drown'd in azure 

gloom 
Of tliander-ehower, she floated to as and 

said: 

* Too have done well and like a gentle- 



Aad like a prince; yon have oar thanks for 
alL 
yoo look well too in your woman's 



Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
Tea saved our life; we owe yoa bitter 

thanks. 510 

Better have died and spilt our bones in the 

flood — 
TWa men had said — but now — what 

hinders me 
T* take such bloody vengeance on you 

both? — 



Yet since our father — wasps in oar good 

hive. 
You would-be quenchers of the light to 

bears — 
O, would 1 had his sceptre for one hoar I 
You that have dared to break our bound, 

and gull'd 
Our servants, wrong'd and lied and 

thwarted us — 
/ wed with thee 1 / bound by precontract 
Your bride, vour bondslave I not tho' all 

the gold 531 

That veins the world were packed to make 

your crown. 
And every spoken tongue should lord yoa. 

Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to 

us; 
I trample on your offers and on yon. 
Begone; we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates.' 

In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the 

Slouffb 
eir broad faces toward us and ad- 

dress'd 
Their motion. Twice 1 sought to plead my 

cause, 5JO 

But on my shoulder hung their heavy 

hands. 
The weight of destiny; so from her face 
They push'd us, down the steps, and thrd 

the court. 
And with grim laughter thrust as out at 

gates. 

We crossM the street and gain'd a petty 

mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and 

beard 
The voices murmuring. While I listen'd, 

came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the 

doubt. 
I seem'd to move among a world of ghoets; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman- 

g^rd, 540 

The jest and earnest working side by side. 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows; and the long fantastic 

night 
With all ito doings had and had not been. 
And all things were and were not 



143 



THE PRINCESS 



This went by 
As sirmngely as it oame, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy — 
Not lone; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sucraen ghostly sluulowings I was one 
To whom tlM toach of all mischance but 
came sy> 

As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees &e midsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise; then we moved away. 



INTERLUDE 

Thy Toiee is heard thro' rolling drams 
That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy f aoe across his fancy oomes, 

And gives the battle to his hands. 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 
He sees his brood about thy knee ; 
The next, like fire he meets Uie foe, 

And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 
i 
So Lilia sang. We thought her half-pos- 

sess'd, 
She struck such warbling fury thro' the 
words; to 

And, after, feigning pique at what she cali'd 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sub- 
lime — 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music — clapt her hands and cried for 

war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an 

end. 
And he that next inherited the tale. 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 

* Sir Ralph has got your colors; if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what 

forme?' 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 21 
She took it and she flung it. ' Fight,' she 

said, 

* And make us all we would be, great and 

good.' 
He knigbtlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrow d from the hall, 
Arranged the favor, and assumed the 

Prince. 



Now, scarce three paces measured from 

the mound. 
We stumbled on a stationary voice, 



And < Stand, who goes ? ' * Two firam tkt 

palaoe,' L 
* The second two; they wait»' he nid, 'pMi 

on; 
Hia Hiprhness wakes; ' .nd 0M,1ii.telad>'d 

m arms, 
By gli^a.eriogUne.^dw.11. .!<««. 

Threading the soldieiHsi^, till we heard 
The drowsy folds of our great ensign 
From blazon'd lions o'er the imperial teni 
Whispers of war. 

Entering, the sodden lighi 
Dased me half-blind. I stood and Mem*d 

to hear, n 

As in a poplar grove when a light wind 

wakes 
A lisping of the innunaeroos leaf and diea. 
Each hissing in his nei^bor's ear; and 

then 
A stranded titter, out of which there brakn 
On all sides, clamoring etiquette to dentin 
Unmeasured mirth; while now the two old 

kings 
Began to wag their baldness op and down. 
The fresh young captains flash d their gliU 

tering teeth. 
The huge bush-beimled banms heaved and 

blew, ao 

And slain with laughter roU'd the gilded 

squire. 

At length my sire, his rough cheek wet 

with tears. 
Panted fiom weary sides, ' King, yoo are 

free ! 
We did but keep you surety for our son. 
If this be he, — or a draggled mawkin, 

thou, 
That tends her bristled grunters in the 

sludgy;' 
For I was drench'd with ooze, and torn 

with briers. 
More crumpled than a poppy from the 

sheath. 
And all one rag, disprinced from head to 

heeL 
Then some one sent beneath his vaulted 

palm 30 

A whisper'd jest to some one near him, 

' Look, 
He has been among his shadows.' ' Satan 

take 
The old women and their shadows * '-^ thoa 

the king 



PART FIFTH 



143 



tm^i — 'make youself a mao to fight 

with man. 
ۥ; Cyril told us alL' 

As boys that slink 
fnm ftrale and the trespasa-chidiDg eye, 
Awiy «• stole, ard transient in a trioe 
Fnbi what was left of &ded woman-slough 
T^ tkstiiia^ splendors and the golden sciUe 
Of hmsss, issued in the sun, that now 40 
LMfl from the dewy shoulders of the 

sartk, 
ill yt the Northern hUls. Here Cyril 

saet OS, 
Afiltk shj at first, but by and bj 
Wt twain, with mutual pardon ask'd and 

giTm 
Fv imce and song, resolder'd peace, 

whereon 
FsOov'd his tale. Amazed he fled awaj 
TM ths dark land, and later in the night 
Had eome on Psyche weeping: * then we 
fsQ 48 

lato your father's hand, and there she lies, 
Bet wiU not speak nor stir.' 

He show'd a tent 
A i toseihot off; we entered in, and there 
piled arms and rough accoutre- 
ments, 

•igfat, wrapp'd in a soldier's cloak, 
Iil» Mmie sweet sculpture draped from 

head to foot. 
Aid pMh'd by rude hands from its pedes- 
tal, 
AH her fair length upon the ground she 

ky; 
Aad St her head a follower of the camp, 
A charred and wrinkled piece of woman- 
hood, 
Stt wstching like a watcher by the dead. 

Then Florian knelt, and * Come,' he whis- 
pered to her, 60 
'Lift np your head, sweet sister; lie not 

thus. 
What haTO too done but right ? you could 

not slay 
Mi^ nor your prince; look up, be com- 
forted. 
Svwet is it to hare done the thing one 
It, 

in darker ways.' And like- 
I: 

*Be eemforted; have I not lost her too, 
fai whose least aet abides the nameless 



ought, 
fafien 



That none has else for me ? ' She heard, 

she moved. 
She moan'd, a folded Toice; and up she 

sat, 
And raised the cloak from brows as pale 

and smooth 70 

As those that mourn half-shrouded over 

death 
In deathless marble. * Her,' she said, 'my 

friend — 
Parted from her — betray 'd her cause and 

mine — 
Where shall I breathe 7 why kept ye not 

your faith ? 
O base and bad I what comfort ? none for 

mef 
To whom remorseful Cyril, < Yet I pray 
Take comfort; live, dear lady, for your 

child!' 
At which she lifted np her voice and cried: 

' Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah, my 

child. 
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no 

more I 80 

For now will cruel Ida keep her back; 
And either she will die from want of oarOy 
Or sicken with ill-usage, when they say 
The child is hers — for every little fault, 
The child is hers; and they will beat my 

girl 
Remembering her mother — O my flower t 
Or they will take her, they will make her 

hard. 
And she will pass me by in after-life 
With some cold reverence worse than were 

she dead. 89 

111 mother that I was to leave her there. 
To lag behind, scared by the cry they made^ 
The horror of the shame among them alL 
But I will go and sit beside the doors, 
And make a wild petition night and day. 
Until they hate to hear me like a wind 
Wailing for ever, till they open to me. 
And lay my little blossom at my feet. 
My babe, my sweet Aglalfa, my one child; 
And I will take her up and go my way, 
And satisfy m^ soul with kissing her. mo 
Ah! what might that man not deserve 

of me 
Who gave me hack my child ? ' 'fie eom- 

forted,' 
Said Cyril, *you shall have it;' but again 
She veird her brows, and pcona she sank. 

nndsQ^ 



M4 



THE PRINCESS 



Like tender things that being eangbt feign 

death, 
8poke noty nor stirr'd. 

By this a mnrmor ran 
Thro' all the camp, aiid inward raced the 

sooots 
With rumor of Prince Arac hard at hand. 
We left her by the woman, and without 
Foond the gra^ kings at parle; and ' Look 

Tou, cned no 

My father, * that our compact be fnlfiU'd. 
Yon have spoilt this child; she laughs at 

yon and man; 
She wrongs herself, her sex, and me, and 

him. 
But red-&ced war has rods of steel and 

fire; 
She yields, or war.' 

Then Gama tnzn'd to me: 
' We fear, indeed, you spent a stormy time 
With our strange girl; and yet they say 

that still 
Yon love her. Give us, then, your mind 

at large: 
How say you, war or not ? ' 

* Not war, if possible, 

king,' I said, 'lest from the abuse of 

war, ISO 

The desecnted shrine, the trampled year, 
The smouldering homestead, and the house- 
hold flower 
Tom from the lintel — all the common 

wrong— 
A smoke go up thro' which I loom to her 
Three times a monster. Now she lightens 

scorn 
At him that mars her plan, but then would 

hate — 
And every voice she talk'd with ratify it, 
And every face she look'd on justify it — 
The general foe. More soluble is this knot 
By gentleness than war. I want her love. 130 
Wlukt were I nigher this altho' we dash'd 
Your cities into shards with catapults ? — 
She would not love — or brought her 

chain'd, a slave, 
The lifting of whose eyelash is my lord ? 
Not ever would she love, but brooding turn 
The book of scorn, till all my flitting chance 
Were caught within the record of her 

wrongs 
And crushed to death; and rather. Sire, 

than this 

1 would the old god of war himself were 

d«Ml. 






Forgotten, rusting on his iron lul]% •# 
Bo&ng on some wild shore with liba of 

wreck. 
Or like an old-world mammoth bnlkVl m. 

ice. 
Not to be molten oat.' 

And Twighly sMfai 
My father: 'Tut, yon know them not, te 

girls. 
Boy, when I hear yon prate I almoat ttndc 
That idiot legend credible. Look jam, mt 1 
Man is the hunter; woman is his game. 
The sleek and shining ereatnres of te 

chase. 
We hunt them for the bean^ of their sUns; 
They love us for it, and we ride them 

down. t5» 

Wheedling and siding with them I Oiitt 

for shame ! 
Boy, there 's no rose that 's half so dear to 

them 
As he that does the thing they dan not do^ 
Breathing and sounding beanteons battle^ 

comes 
With the air of the trumpet roond him, and 

leaps in 
Among the women, snares them bj the 

score 
Flatter'd and fluster'd, wins, tho' dash'd 

with death 
He reddens what he kisses. Thus I won 
Your mother, a good mother, a good wife. 
Worth winning; but this firebrand — gen- 
tleness 160 
To such as her I if Cyril spake her truey 
To catch a dragon in a cherry net, 
To trip a tigress with a gossamer. 
Were wisdom to it.' 

* Yea, but. Sire,' I cried, 
' Wild natures need wise curbs. The sol- 
dier? No! 
What dares not Ida do that she should 

prize 
The soldier ? I beheld her, when she rose 
The yesternight, and storming in extremes 
Stood for her cause, and flung defiance 

down 
Gragelike to man, and had not shunn'd tht 

death, 170 

No, not the soldier's; yet I hold her, king, 
True woman; but you clash them all in onc^ 
That have as many differences as we. 
The violet varies from the lily as far 
As oak from elm. One loves the soldieri 

one 



PART FIFTH 



»4S 




of peaee, one thiB, one that, 
AidMNM oaworthily; their sinless faith, 
A BsadM mooD that sparkles on a sty, 
Ckatpag elowii and satyr; whence they 

■«1 "79 

Mm bfsadth of ealtnre. Is not Ida right ? 

Tlij rath it ? tmer to the law within ? 

fimnr in tlie lof^ie of a life 7 

Jmm m magnetio to sweet influences 

Of csith aad heaven ? and she of whom 

Mj Bother, looks as whole as some serene 
Cmtioa minted in the golden moods 
Of Mftreign artists ; not a thought, a touch, 
Bsl fut as lines of green that streak the 

i^Bto 
Of tWiist snowdrop's inner leaves; I say. 
Kit Ukt the piehald miscellany, man, igo 
Bmti of great heart and slips in sensual 

Biiro, 
Bat wkoleajid one; and take them all-in-all, 
W«« we ooraelves but half as good, as 



Ai tnfthful, much that Ida claims as right 

Had se'er been mooted, but as frai^y 
theirs 

As does of Nature. To our point; not war, 

UstllosealL' 

' Nay, nay, you spake but sense,' 

Siid Gaauu * We remember love ourself 

!■ oir sweet youth; we did not rate him 
then 199 

TIm fod>hot iron to be shaped with blows. 

Toe liUk almost like Ida; she can talk ; 

Aad tbeie is something in it as you say: 

Bidyoo talk kindlier; we esteem you for 
it- 

He ntms a gmeions and a gallant Prince, 
1 voild he had our daughter. For the rest, 
OarowB detention, why, the causes weigh'd, 
FstMy fears — yon used us courteously — 
Wt weald do much to gratify your Prince — 
^t psrdon it; and for your ingress here 309 
r^ the skirt and fringe of our fair land, 
foa did hot come as goblins in the night, 
Jfor in the furrow broke the ploughman's 



Vor burnt the grange, nor buss'd the milk- 

ing-maid, 
Xor fobb d the farmer of his bowl of cream. 
Bat lei yoor Plrince — our royal word 

■poo it. 
Be eooMS back safe — ride with us to oar 




As4 tpaak with Arte. Arao's word u thrice 



As ours with Ida; something may be done — 
I know not what — and ours shall see us 

friends. 
You, likewise, our late guests, if so you 

will, aao 

Follow us. Who knows ? we four may build 

some plan 
Foursquare to opposition.' 

Here he reaoh'd 
White hands of farewell to my sire, who 

growl'd 
An answer which, half-muffled in his beard, 
Let so much out as gave us leave to go. 

Then rode we with the old king across 

the lawns 
Beneath huge trees, a thousand rings of 

Spring 
In ereij bole, a song on every spray 
Of birds that piped their Valentines, and 

woke 
Desire in me to infuse mv tale of love 930 
In the old king's ears, who promised help, 

and oozed 
All o'er with honey 'd answer as we rode; 
And blossom-fragrant slipt the heavv dews 
Gather'd by night and peace, with each 

light air 
On our mail'd heads. But other thoughts 

than peace 
Burnt in us, when we saw the embattled 

squares 
And squadrons of the Prince, trampling 

the flowers 
With clamor; for among them rose a cry 
As if to greet the king; they made a halt; 
The horses yell'd; they clash'd their arms; 

the drum 340 

Beat; merrily-blowing shrill'd the martial 

fife; 
And in the blast and bray of the long horn 
And serpent- throated bugle, undulat«d 
The banner. Anon to meet us lightly 

pranced 
Three captains out; nor ever had I seen 
Such thews of men. The midmost and the 

highest 
Was Arac; all about his motion clung 
The shadow of his sister, as the beam 
Of the East, that play'd upon them, made 

them glance 
Like those three stars of the airy Giant's 

tone, aso 

That glitter bumish'd by the frotty dark; 
And M the fiery Sirius altefs huis 



146 



THE PRINCESS 



And bickers into red and emerald, shone 
Their morions, wash'd with morning, as 
they came. 

And I that prated peace, when first I 
heard 
War^music, felt the blind wild-beast of 

force, 
Whose home is in the sinews of a man. 
Stir in me as to strike. Then took the king 
His three broad sons; with now a wander- 
ing hand 359 
And now a pointed fln^r, told them all. 
A common tight of smiles at our disguise 
Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy 

jest 
Had labor'd down within his ample lungs. 
The genial giant, Arac, roU'd himself 
Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in 
words: 

* Oar land iuTaded, 'sdeath I and he him- 
self 

Tonr captive, yet my father wills not war! 

And, 'sdeath I myself, what care I, war 
or no? 

But then this question of yonr troth re- 
mains; 

And there 's a downright honest meaning 
in her. 370 

She flies too high, she flies too high ! and 
yet 

She ask'd but space and fair-play for her 
scheme; 

She prest and prest it on me — I myself, 

WhsLt know I of these things ? but, life 
and soul I 

I thought her half -right talking of her 
wrongs; 

I say she flies too high, 'sdeath ! what of 
that? 

I take her for the flower of womankind, 

And so I often told her, right or wrong; 

And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she 
loves, 279 

And, right or wrong, I care not; this is all, 

I stand upon her side; she made me swear 
it — 

'Sdeath I — and with solemn rites by can- 
dle-light — 

Swear by Saint something — I forget her 



Her that talk'd down the fifty wisest men; 
She was a prinoets too; and so I swore. 



Come, this is all; she will not; wi 

claim. 
If not, the fonghten field, what 

once 
Decides it, 'sdeath 1 against my 

will.' 

I lagg'd in answer, loth to rendi 
My precontract, and loth by brain 
To cleave the rift of difference d& 
Till one of those two brothers, hal 
And fingering at the hair about hi 
To prick us on to combat, ' Like t 
The woman's garment hid the 

heart' 
A taunt that clench'd his pnrpoi 

blow ! 
For fiery-short was Cyril's eonntei 
And sharp I answer d, toneh'd 1 

point 
Where idle bojrs are cowards 

shame, 
* Decide it here; why not ? we are 

three.' 

Then spake the third: 'But 

three ? no more ? 
No more, and in our noble sister's 
More, more, for honor 1 every capfc 
Hungry for honor, angry for his k 
More, more, some fifty on a side, i 
May breathe himself, and quick 1 

throw 
Of these or those, the question set 

* Yea,' answer'd I, * for this wil 

of air, 
This flake of rainbow flying on the 
Foam of men's deeds — this honi 

will. 
It needs must be for honor if at al 
Since, what decision ? if we fail w 
And if we win we fail; she would 1 
Her compact' ' 'Sdeath ! but we 

to her,' 
Said Arac, ' worthy reasons why si 
Bide by this issue ; let our missive 
And you shall have her answei 

word.' 

' Boys ! ' shriek'd the old king, ' 
lier than a hen 
To her false daughters in the ] 
none 



PART FIFTH 



147 



lifuded; neitlier feem'd tbere more to 

iMk rod* w« to my father's eamp, and 

foand 
Hi tbiet bad aent a herald to the gates, 
If ksm if Ida yet would cede our claim. 
Or hj denial flush her babbliug wells 
WA Wr own people's life; three times he 

went. 
TW flnt, he blew and Uew, but none ap- 

pear'd; 
Hibstter'd at the doors, none came; the 



Is swfol Yoioe within had wam'd him 



Ik third, and those eight daughters of the 

ploo^ 
Cae Mlljm^ thro' the gates, and caught 

lus hair, 330 

Aad 10 belabor'd him on rib and cheek 
Tkj BHMie him wild. Not less one glance 

he caught 
Tkio* open doors of Ida station'd there 
Unksken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
Tbo'sQBipass'd by two armies and the noise 
Of tnnt; and standing like a stately pine 
t^ is s oataaet on an island-crag, 
Whea ftorm is on the heights, and right 

sad left 
8«k'd from the dark heart of the long hills 

leU 
Ths torrents, dash'd to the Tale; and yet 

her wUl 340 

And will in me to overcome it or fall. 

fiat when I told the king that I was 
pledged 
Ta Ight in touraey for my bride, he clash'd 
Hi* iroB palms together with a cry; 
Himslf would tilt it out among the lads; 
Bat ofe rb or a e by all his bearded lords 
Wok NMOO. dkwB from .ge and state. 

perforce 
fit jieUed, wroth and red, with fierce de- 
mur; 
Aad oMuy a bold knight started up in heat, 
Aad swara to oombat for my claim till 

3SO 



An on this side the palace ran the field 
Flat to the garden-wall; and likewise here, 
Abore the garden's glowing blossom-belts, 
A eolnmn'd entry shone and marble stairs, 
Aad great broose Tmlfiay emboaa'd with 
Tonyris 



And what ahe did to Cyrus after fi^t. 
But now fast barr'd. So here upon the flat 
All that long mom the lists were hammer'd 

up. 
And all that mom the heralds to and fro. 
With message and defiance, went and came; 
Last, Ida's answer, in a royal hand* 361 
But shaken here and there, and rolling 

words 
Oration-like. I kiss'd it and I read: 

' O brother, yon have known the pangs 

we felt. 
What heats of indignation when we heard 
Of those that iron-cramp'd their women's 

feet; 
Of lands in which at the altar the poor 

bride 
Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a 

scourge; 
Of living hearts that crack within the fire 
Where smoulder their dead despots; and of 

those, — 370 

Mothers, — that, all prophetic pity, fling 
Their pretty maids m the running flood, 

and swoops 
The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart 
Made for all noble motion. And I saw 
That equal baseness lived in sleeker times 
With smoother men; the old leaven lei^ 

ven'd all; 
Millions of throats would bawl for civil 

righto. 
No woman named; therefore I set my face 
Against all men, and lived but for mine 

own. 
Far off from men I built a fold for them; 
I stored it full of rich memorial ; 381 

I fenced it round with gallant iustitutes. 
And biting laws to scare the beasto of prey. 
And proeper'd, till a rout of saucy boys 
Brake on us at our books, and marr'd our 

peace, 
Mask'd like our maids, blustering I know 

not what 
Of insolence and love, some pretext held 
Of baby troth, invalid, since my will 
Seal'd not the bond — the striplings I — 

for their sport ! — 
I tamed my leopards; shall I not tame 

these ? 390 

Or you ? or I ? for sinoe yon think me 

touch'd 
In honor — what I I would not aaght of 

false — 



148 



THE PRINCESS 



Is not our cause pure 7 and whereas I know 
Your prowess, Arac, and what mother's 

olood 
Ton draw from, fight! Yon failing, I abide 
What end soerer; fail you will not. Still, 
Take not his life, he risk'd it for my own; 
His mother lives. Yet whatsoe'er you do. 
Fight and fight well; strike ana strike 

home. O dear 
Brothers, the woman's angel guards you, 

you 400 

The sole men to be mingled with our cause. 
The sole men we shall prize in the after- 
time, 
Your very armor hallow'd, and your statues 
Rear'd, sung to, when, tliis gadfly brush'd 

aside, 
We plant a solid foot into the Time, 
And mould a generation strong to move 
With claim on claim from right to right, 

tiUshe 
YHiose name is yoked wiC: children's 

know herself; 
And Knowledge in our own land make her 

tree. 
And, ever following those two crowned 

twins, 410 

Conmierce and Conquest, shower the fiery 

grain 
Of freedom broadcast over all that orbs 
Between the Northern and the Southern 

mom.' 

Then came a postscript dash'd across the 

rest: 
* See that there be no traitors in your camp. 
We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust 
Since our arms fail'd — this Egypt-plague 

of men ! 
Almost our maids were better at their 

homes. 
Than thus man-girdled here. Indeed I 

think 
Our chiefest comfort is the little child 420 
Of one unworthy mother, which she left. 
She shall not have it back; the child shall 

grow 
To prize the authentic mother of her mind. 
I took it for an hour in mine own bed 
This morning; there the tender orphan 

hands 
Felt at my heart, and seem'd to charm from 

thence 
The wrath I nursed against the world. 

Farewell.' 



I ceased; he said, * Stabbom, but ib 

may sit 
Upon a king's right hand in tkiudBi 

storms. 
And breed np warriors I See now, tiio 

yoorself 41 

Be dazzled by the wildfire LoTe to tioiigbi 
That swallow oommon sense^ tbe spaiduii( 

king. 
This Grama swamp'd in lai^ toteimnoe. 
When the man wants weight, tlie womai 

takes it up. 
And topples down the scales; bat this i 

fizt 
As are the roots of earth and base of all,- 
Man for the field and woman for tb 

hearth; 
Man for the sword, and for the needle sin 
Man with the head, and woman with tli 

heart; 
Man to conmoand, and woman to obey; 4. 
All else confusion. Look yon ! the gra 

mare 
Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrill 
From tile to scullery, and her small gooi 

man 
Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires < 

hell 
Mix with his hearth. But yon — she 's y< 

a colt — 
Take, break her; strongly groom'd an 

straitly curb'd 
She might not rank with those detestable 
That let the bantling scald at home, an 

brawl 
Their rights or wrongs like potherbs in tl 

street. 
They say she 's comely; there 's the fairc 

chance. 4* 

/ like her none the less for rating at her I 
Besides, the woman wed is not as we. 
But suffers change of frame. A lusty brae 
Of twins may weed her of her folly. B01 
The bearing and the training of a child 
Is woman's wisdom.' 

Thus the hard old kin| 
I took my leave, for it was nearly noon; 
I pored upon her letter which I held, 
And on the little clause, * take not his life; 
I mused on that wild morning in the woodi 
And on the * Follow, follow, thou shal 

win;' 4t 

I thought on all the wrathful king had saic 
And how the strange betrothment was t 

end. 



PART FIFTH 



^49 



Hm I remamber'd that burnt Boroerer's 

eoiM 
TWt OM ihould fight with shadows and 

thodd&U; 
JUd IQta a flash the weird affeetion came. 
Ka^oampy and college tum'd to hollow 

shows; 
I MB*d to moms in old memorial tilts, 
Aid doing battle with forgotten ghosts, 
To dream mjself the shadow of a dream; 
Asd eie I woke it was the point of noon, 
IW lifts were readjr. Euipanoplied and 

phmed 47a 

Wf cater*d in, and waited, fifty there 
Opposed to fiftj, tUl the trumpet blared 
At tke barrier like a wild horn in a land 
Of oeboes, and a moment, and once more 
IW trumpet, and again; at which the 

itorm 
Of gilloping hoofs bare on the ridge of 



Asd riders front to front, until thev closed 

Is eoafliet with the crash of snivering 

points, 480 

All ttaader. Yet it seem*d a dream, I 

dream'd 
Of Igbting. On his haunches rose the 

BieeQ, 
Asd isto fierj splinters leapt the lance, 
Asd ootof stricken helmets sprane the fire. 
f^ Mt like rocks; part reel'd but kept 

tbeir seats; 
Art roU*d on the earth and rose again and 

drew; 
I^itambled mizt with floundering horses. 

Down 
fVsn those two bulks at Arac's side, and 

down 
FWa Arac's arm, as from a giant's flail, 
IW large blows rain'd, as here and everj- 
where 490 

Bt rode the mellaj, lord of the ringing 

lists. 
And all the plain — brand, mace, and 

shaft, and shield — 
ftoek'd, like an iron-clanging anril baag'd 
Witii hammers; till I thought, can this be he 
From Gama's dwarfish loins ? if this be so, 
The mother makes us most — and in mj 

dream 
I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front 
AliTe with fluttering scarfs and ladies* eyes. 
And bigbeat, among the statues, statue-like. 
Between a cymbal^ Miriam and a Jael, 
With ^yehe's babe, was Ida watohing as, 



A single band of gold about her hair, ya 
Like a saint's glory up in heaven; but she. 
No saint — inexorable — no tenderness — 
Too hard, too crueL Tet she sees me fight. 
Yea, let her see me fall. With that I dntve 
Among the thickest and bore down a 

prince. 
And Cvril one. Yea, let me make my 

oream 
All that I would. But that large-moulded 

man. 
His risage all agrin as at a wake, 510 

Made at me thro' the press, and, stagger- 
ing back 
With stroke on stroke the horse and 

horseman, came 
As comes a pillar of electric cloud, 
FUying the roofs .nd sacking op the 

drains, 
And shadowing down the champaign till it 

strikes 
On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and 

cracks, and splits. 
And twists the grain with such a roar that 

Earth 
Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for every- 

thinff 
Gave way before him. Only Florian, he 
That loved me closer than his own right 

eye, 5«> 

Thrust in between; but Arao rode him 

down. 
And Cyril seeing it, push'd against the 

Prince, 
With Psyche's color round his helmet, 

tough. 
Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms; 
But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that 

smote 
And threw him. Last I spurr'd; I felt my 

veins 
Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to 

hand, 
And sword to sword, and horse to horse we 

hung, 
nil I struck out and shouted; the blade 

glanced, 
I did but shear a feather, and dream and 

truth S30 

Flow'd from me; darkness closed me, and 

I fell. 

Home they brought her warrior desil ; 

She nor swoon*d nor uttered cry. 
All her maidens, watehiug, said, 

* She roust weep or she will die.* 



ISO 



THE PRINCESS 



Then they praiaed him, loft and low, 
Call'd him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Tet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lig^htly to the -warrior stept, 

Took the faoe-oloth from the face ; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears ■ 
*' Sweet my child, I live for thee.' 



VI 

My dream had never died or lived again; 
As in some mystic middle state I lay. 
Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard; 
The', if I saw not, yet they told me all 
So often that I speak as having seen. 

For so it seem'd, or so they said to me. 
That all things grew more tragic and more 

strange; 
That when our side was vanquished and my 

cause 
For ever lost, there went up a great cry, 

I slain! * M^ 
and ran 



'The Prince is slain! ' My father heard 



lO 



In on the lists, and there unlaced my 

casque 
And groveird on my body, and after him 
Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglai'a. 

But high upon the palace Ida stood 
With Psyche s babe m arm; there on the 

roofs 
Like that great dame of Lapidoth she 

sang. 

' Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : the 
• seed, 
The little seed they langh*d at in the dark, 
Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk 
Of spanless girth, that lavs on every side ao 
A thousand arms and ruskee to the sun. 

^ Our enemies have fallen, have fallen : they 

came; 
The leaves were wet with women's tears ; they 

heard 
A noise of songs they would not understand ; 
They marked it with the red cross to the fall, 
And wouid have strown it, and are fallen them- 



* Onr enemies have fallen, have £aU«n : tiiiy 

came, 
The woodmen with their axes : lo the tree I 
But we wiU make it faggots for the hearth, 
And shape it plank and beam for roof asd 

floor, 3B 

And boats and bridges for the nee of man. 

* Onr enemies have fallen, have fallen; th^ 

struck; 
With their own blows they hurt themeslves, 

nor knew 
There dwelt an iron nature in the grain ; 
The glittering axe was broken in their arms, 
Their arms were shatter*d to the ehonlder 

blade. 

'Our enemies have fallen, but this ahall 

grow 
A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth 
Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and 

roU'd 
With music in the growing breeie of Time, ¥> 
The tops shall strike from star to star, the 

fangs 
Shall move the stony bases of the world. 

* And now, O maids, behold onr saiieta- 

ary 
Is violate, our laws broken; fear we not 
To break them more in their behoof, whose 

arms 
Champion'd our cause and won it with a 

day 
Blanch'd in our annals, and perpetual feast. 
When dames and heroines of the golden 

year 
Shall strip a hundred hollows bare of 

Spring, 
To rain an April of ovation round jo 

Their statues, borne aloft, the three; bat 

come. 
We will be liberal, since our rights are 

won. 
Let them not lie in the tents with coane 

mankind, 
HI nurses; but descend, and proffer these 
The brethren of our blood and cause, that 

there 
Lie bruised and maim'd, the tender minia- 

tries 
Of female hands and ho8|ntalitj.' 

She spoke, and with the babe jet in bar 

arms. 
Descending, burst the great bronxe TidTaSi 

and led 59 

A hundred maids in train aerois the park. 



PART SIXTH 



iS« 



tot eovTd, and tome bare-headed, on 

nir fwi in flowen, her loreliest Bj 

thm went 
Hi — iwni^d air sighing, and on their 

carle 
hm the high tree the Uoflsom wavering 

feU, 
Aid oftr them the tremuloas islei of light 
flUid, the J moving under shade; out 

Bhuiche 
Atiiiteaes follow'd. So they came: anon 
Tkv* open Held into the lists thej wound 
Tmofousljr; and as the leader of the herd 
Ikt koMs a stately fretwork to the sun, 70 
Aid foUow'd op by a hundred airy does, 
Stefi with a tender foot, light as on air, 
1W lofsly, lordly creature floated on 
Tt vlKn her woonded brethren lay; there 

•UyU 
Ksdt OB one knee, — the child on one, — 

sad prest 
Ihnr binds, and eaU'd them dear deliver- 

m, 
Asd hmny warriors, and immortal names, 
Aid lud, * You shall not lie in the tents, 

bothere. 
Aid lined by those for whom yon fought, 

lid served 
Wkk feaale hands and hospitality/ 80 

Tka, whether moved by this, or was it 



8bi put my way. Up started from my 

tide 
Tit old lioo, glaring with his whelpless eye, 
Sihit; hot when sl^ saw me lying stark, 
Mielni'd and mute, and motionlessly pale, 
Ctldofea to her, she sigh'd; and when she 

1W haggard father's face and reverend 

bard 

Of miy twine, all dabbled with the blood 

Of his own son, shndder'd, a twitch of pain 

Tottned her mouth, and o*er her forehead 

past 90 

A shadow, and her hue changed, and she 



'He saved my life; my brother slew him 

for tt. 
Xo OMiffe; at which the king in bitter scorn 
Dvew fmn my neck the painting and the 



Roee from the distance on her memory. 
When the good queen, her mother, shore 

the tress 
With kisses, ere the days of Lady Blanche. 
And then once more she looked at my pale 

face; 
Till understanding all the foolish work 100 
Of Fancy, and the bitter close of all. 
Her iron will was broken in her mind; 
Her noble heart was molten in her breast; 
She bow*d, she set the child on the earth; 

she laid 
A feeling finger on my brows, and pre- 
sently 
*0 Sire,' she said, 'he lives; he is not 

deadt 
O, let me have him with my brethren here 
In our own palace; we will tend on him 
Like one of these; if so, by any means, 
To lighten this great clog of thanks, that 

make 
Our progress falter to the woman's goaL' 



110 



Amd held them op. She saw them, and a 



She said; but at the happy word 'he 

lives! ' 
My father stoop*d, re-father'd o'er my 

wounds. 
So those two foes above my fallen life. 
With brow to brow like night and evening 

mixt 
Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever 

stole 
A little nearer, till the babe that by ns, 
Half-lapt in glowing gause and golden 

brede. 
Lay like a new-fallen meteor on the grass, 
Uncared for, spied its mother and began 
A blind and babbling laughter, and to 

dance fat 

Its body, and reach its fatling innooent 

anns 
And lazy lingering fingers. She the appeal 
Brook'd not, but clamoring out * Mine — 

mine — not yours I 
It is not yours, but mine; give me the 

child I ' 
Ceased all on tremble; piteous was the 

crv. 
So stood the unhappy mother open- 

mouth'd. 
And tum'd each face her way. Wan was 

her cheek 
With hollow watch, her blooming mantle 

torn, 
Red grief and mother's hunger in her eye^ 



IS4 



THE PRINCESS. 



He rose, and while each ear was priok'd 
to attend 
A tempest, thro' the cloud that dimmed her 

hroke 
A genial warmth and light once more, and 

shone 
Thro' glittering drops on her sad friend. 

* Come hither, 

Psyche,' she cried oat, 'emhraoe me, 

come, 
Quick while I melt; make reconcilement 

sure 
With one that cannot keep her mind an 

hour; 369 

Come to the hollow heart they slander 

so t 
Kiss and be friends, like children being 

chid I 
/ seem no more, / want forgiveness too; 

1 should have had to do with none but 

nuiids, 
That have no links with men. Ah false 

but dear. 
Dear traitor, too much loved, why ? — 

why ? — yet see 
Before these kings we embrace you yet 

once more 
With all forgiveness, all oblivion, 
And trust, not love, you less. 

And now, O Sire, 
Grant me your son, to nurse, to wait upon 

him. 
Like mine own brother. For mj debt to 

him, 380 

This nightmare weight of gratitude, I know 

it. 
Taunt me no more; yourself and yours 

shall have 
Free adit; we will scatter all our maids 
Till happier times each to her proper 

hearth. 
What use to keep them here — now ? grant 

my prayer. 
Help, father, brother, help; speak to the 

king; 
Thaw this male nature to some touch of 

that 
Which kills me with myself, and drags me 

down 
From my fixt height to mob me up with 

all 389 

The soft and milky rabble of womankind. 
Poor weakling even as they are.' 

Passionate tears 
Folio w'd; the king replied not; Cyril said: 



* Tour brother, lady, — Florian, — aak foi 

him 
Of your great Head — for he is wcmnded 

too — 
That you may tend upon him with the 

Prince.* 

* Ay, so/ said Ida with a bitter smile, 

* Our laws are broken; let him enter too.' 
Then Violet, she that sang the monnifii] 

song, 
And had a cousin tumbled on the plain, 
Petition'd too for him. 'Ay, so^' she 

said, 900 

' I stagger in the stream; I cannot keep 
My heart an eddy from the brawling hour. 
We break our laws with ease, but let it 

be.' 
' Ay, so ? ' said Blanche: < Amazed am I to 

hear 
Your Hi^^bness; but your Highness breaks 

with ease 
The law your Highness did not make; 

't was I. 
I had been wedded wife, I knew man- 
kind. 
And block'd them out; but these men came 

to woo 
Tour Highness, — verily I think to win.' 

So she, and tum'd askance a wintnr eye; 
But Ida, with a voice that, like a bell sit 
Toll'd by an earthquake in a tiemblii^ 

tower. 
Rang ruin, answer'd full of grief and scorn: 

' Fling our doors wide ! all, all, not one, 

but all, 
Not only he, but by my mother's soul, 
Whatever man lies wounded, friend or foe, 
Shall enter, if he will I Let our girls flit. 
Till the storm die 1 but had you stood l^ 

us. 
The roar that breaks the Pharos from his 

base 
Had left us rock. She fain would sting us 

too, 330 

But shall not. Pass, and mingle with your 

likes. 
We brook no further insult, but are gone.' 

She tum'd; the very nape of her white 

neck 
Was rosed with indignation; but the Prinee 
Her brother came; the king her 6Ulwt 

charmed 



PART SEVENTH 



^S5 



Bar womided soul with words; nor did 

mine own 
Bcfme her proffer, lastly gave his hand. 

Then ns thej lifted op, dead weights, 
and bare 
Stxaigfat to the doors; to them the doors 
gaye war 3^9 

Grauung, and m the vestal entry shriek'd 
The Tirgin marble under iron heels. 
And on they moved and gain'd the hall, 

and there 
Bflsted; bnt great the crash was, and each 

base. 
To left and right, of those tall colunms 

drown'd 
Li nlken flnctnation and the swarm 
\ Of female whisperers. At the further end 
Wu Ida by the throne, the two great cats 
CloM bj her, like supporters on a shield, 
I Bov-beek'd with fear; but in the centre 
I stood 

The common men with rolling eyes; 
amased 340 

Tliey gbred opon the women, and aghast 
The women stared at these, all silent, save 
When armor clash'd or jingled, while the 

Mieending, struck athwart the ball, and 

shot 
A flyiiiff splendor out of brass and steel, 
Thit er the statues leapt from head to 

bead, 
^ov fired an angry Pallas on the helm, 
Soviet a wrathful Dian's moon on flame; 
And now and then an echo started up. 
And ibaddering fled from room to room, 

and died 350 

^fri^t in far apartments. 

Then the voice 
Of Ua sounded, issuing ordinance ; 
^ me they bore up the broad stairs, and 

thro' 
^ long -laid galleries past a hundred 

doors 
^0 one deep chamber shut from sound, and 

due 
To hmgoid limbs and sickness, left me 
. . in it; 

^ others otherwhere they laid ; and all 
-^t afternoon a sound arose of hoof 
^ ehariot, many a maiden passing home 
lill happier times; but some were left of 

those 360 

Held la^reet. and the great lords out and in. 



From those two hosts that lay beside the 

wall, 
Walk'd at their will, and everything was 

changed. 

Ask me no more : the moon may draw the sea ; 
The doud may stoop from heaven and take 

the shape, 
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ; 
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee ? 

Ask me 00 more. 

Ask me no more : what answer should I g^ve ? 
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
Yet, O my friend, I will not have Uiee die I 

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ; 

Ask me no more. 

Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are sealed ; 

I strove against the stream and all in vain ; 

Let the neat river take me to the main. 
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 

Ask me no more. 



VII 

So was their sanctuary violated, 
80 their fair college turned to hospital. 
At first with all confusion; by ana by 
Sweet order lived again with other laws, 
A kindlier influence reign'd, and every- 
where 
Low voices with the ministering hand 
Hung round the sick. The maidens came, 

they talk'd. 
They sang, they read; till she not fair be- 
gan 
To gather light, and she that was became 
Her former beauty treble; and to and 
fro 10 

With books, with flowers, with angel offices, 
Like creatures native unto gracious act, 
And in their own clear element, they 
moved. 

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell. 
And hatred of her weakness, blent with 

shame. 
Old studies fail'd; seldom she spoke; but 

oft 
Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for 

hours 
On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men 
Darkening her female field. Void was her 

use. 
And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze 



ISO 



THE PRINCESS 



O'er land and main, and sees a great black 

cloud 21 

Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of 

night, 
Blot out the slope of sea from verge to 

shore, 
And suck the blinding splendor from the 

sand, 
And quenching lake by lake and tarn by 

tarn 
Expunge the world; so fared she gazing 

there. 
So blackened all her world in secret, blank 
And waste it seem'd and vain; tiU down 

she came. 
And found fair peace once more among the 

sick. 

And twilight dawn'd; and mom by morn 

the lark 30 

Shot up and shrill'd in flickering gyres, 

but I 
Lay silent in the muffled cage of life. 
And twilight gloom'd, and broader-grown 

the bowers 
Drew the great night into themselves, and 

heaven. 
Star after star, arose and fell; but I, 
Deeper than those weird doubts could reach 

me, lay 
Quite sunder'd from the moving Universe, 
Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the 

hand 
That nursed me, more than infants in their 

sleep. 

But Psyche tended Florian; with her oft 40 
Melissa came, for Blanche had gone, but 

left 
Her child among us, willing she should 

keep 
Court-favor. Here and there the small 

bright head, 
A light of healing, glanced about the couch. 
Or uiro' the parted silks the tender face 
Peeped, shiniug in upon the wounded man 
Witn blush and smile, a medicine in' them- 
selves 
To wile the length from languorous hours, 

and draw 
The sting from pain; nor seem'd it strange 

.that soon 49 

He rose up whole, and those fair charities 
Join'd at her side ; nor stranger seem'd that 

hearts 



So gentle, so emplov'd, shoold doM in lofs^ 
Thfui when two dewdrops on the petal 

shake 
To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper 

down. 
And slip at once all-fragrant into <»ie. 

Less prosperously the seoond fiiit ob- 

tain'd 
At first with Psyche. Not tho' Blaoflha 

had sworn 
That after that dark night among the ftdds 
She needs must wed him for her own good 

name; $9 

Not tho' he built upon the babe restored ^ 
Not tho' she liked him, yielded she, bnlp 

fear'd 
To incense the Head onoe more; till on ^ 

day 
When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind 
Seen but of Psyche; on her foot she hong 
A moment, and she heard^ at which hoc 

face 
A little flush'd, and she past on; bat each 
Assumed from thenoe a half-oonsent in- 
volved 
In stillness, plighted troth, and were al 

peace. 

Nor only these; Love in the saored halk 
Held carnival at wUl, and flying atmck 70 
With showers of random sweet on maid ai^ 

man. 
Nor did her father cease to press my claim, 
Nor did mine own now reconciled; nor yet 
Did those twin brothers, risen again and 

whole ; 
Nor Arac, satiate with his victory. 

But I lay still, and with me oft she tat. 
Then came a change; for sometimes I 

would catch 
Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hatd» 
And fling it like a viper off, anid shriek, 
* You are not Ida; ' clasp it once again, ft 
And call her Ida, tho' I knew her not. 
And call her sweet, as if in irony, 
And call her hard and cold, which seem'd a 

truth; 
And still she fear'd that I should lose my 

mind. 
And often she believed that I should die; 
Till out of long frustration of her care. 
And pensive tendance in the all- 

noons, 



PART SEVENTH 



'57 



ill wakkm in ibe dead, the dark, when 

IMVd thimder thro* the milace floors, or 

etU'd 
Oi iyng Time from all their silver 

ftoBffoea — 90 

JUd sot ca memoriea of her kindlier days, 
iid MlekNig glances at my father's grief, 
Aid it the happy lovers heart in heart — 
iid out of haantings of my spoken love, 
Aid lonely lastemngs to my mutter'd 

dream* 
Aid often feeling of the helpless hands, 
Aid wordless broodings on the wasted 

eheek — 
Fnb ill a eloeer interest flonrish'd up, 
TtirnwM touch by touch, and last, to 

thtue, 
hm, like an Alpine harebell hung with 

tears too 

hj mmtt cold morning glacier; frail at first 
Aad feeble, all unconscious of itself. 
Bit Meh ss gathered color day by day. 

Liit I woke lane, but well-nigh close to 

death 
For veskness. It was evening; silent light 
8kp( OB the painted walls, wherein were 

wrought 
Twognuid designs; for on one side arose 
TV women up m wild revolt, and stormed 
At tke Oppian law. Titanic shapes, they 

eramm'd 
IV fomm, and half-cmsh'd among the 

rpst 110 

M dwirf-like Cato cower'd. On the other 

side 
BaitiBiia spoke against the tax; behind, 
A train of dames. By axe and eagle sat, 
ft'Uk all their foreheads drawn in Roman 

scowls, 
iad half the wolTa-milk curdled in their 

veina, 
1W firree triumvirs; and before them 

paused 
Hortenaia, pleading; angry was her face. 

I snw the forms; I knew not where I 

wna. 
TWy did hot look like hollow shows; nor 

more 119 

Sweet Ida. Falm to palm she sat; the dew 
Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape 
Aad ronader seem'd. I moved^ I sigh d; 

niooeh 



Came round my wrist, and tears upon my 

hand. 
Then all for languor and self-pity ran 
Mine down my face, and with what life I 

had, 
And like a flower that cannot all unfold, 
So drench'd it is with tempest, to the sun, 
Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on 

her 
Fizt my faint eyes, and utter'd whisper- 

ingly: 

* If you be what I think you, some sweet 
dream, 130 

I would but ask yon to fulfil yourself; 
But if you be that Ida whom I knew, 
I ask you nothing; only, if a dream. 
Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die to- 
night. 
Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.' 

I could no more, but lay like one in 

trance, 
That hears his burial talk'd of by bis friends. 
And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one 

•ign, 
But lies and dreads his doom. She tnm'd, 

she paused, 139 

She stoop'd; and out of languor leapt a 

cry. 
Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of 

death. 
And I believed that in the living world 
My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; 
Till back I fell, and from mine arms she 

rose 
Glowing all over noble shame; and all 
Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, 
And left her woman, lovelier in her mood 
Than in her mould that other, when ah» 

came 
From barren deeps to conquer all with love* 
And down the streaming crystal dropt; and 

she 150 

Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, 
Naked, a double light in air and wave, 
To meet her Graces, where they deck'd her 

out 
For worship without end — nor end of mine, 
Stateliest, for thee I but mute she glided 

forth. 
Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and 

slept, 
Fill*d thro' and thro* with love, a happy 

sleep. 



iS8 



THE PRINCESS 



Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, 
held 
A volume of the poets of her hind. 159 

There to herself, all in low tones, she read: 

'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the 
white ; 



Nor waves the 03rpre88 in the palace walk ; 

jold fin in the p< _ _ 
The fire-fly wakens ; waken thou with me. 



Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font. 



* Now droops the milk-white peacock like a 

ghost, 
And liSce a ghost she glimmers on to me. 

' Now lies the Earth all DanaS to the stars, 
And all thy heart lies open unto me. 

' Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves 
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. 170 

* Now folds the lily all her sweetness np, 
And slips into the hosom of the lake. 

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip 
Into my hosom and he lost in me.' 

I heard her turn the page; she found a 
small 
Sweet idyl, and once more, as low, she 
read: 

' Gome down, O maid, from yonder mountain 
height 
YHiat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd 

sang), 
In height and cold, the splendor of the hills ? 
But cease to move so near the heavens, and 
cease 180 

To glide a sunheam hy the hlasted pine. 
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire ; 
And come, for Love is of the valley, oome, 
For LoTe la of the valley, come thou down 
And find him ; by the happy threshold, he. 
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize. 
Or red with spirted purple (^ the vats. 
Or foxlike in the vine ; nor cares to walk 
With Death and Morning on the Silver Horns, 
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, 
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ioe, 191 
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls 
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors. 
But follow ; let the torrent dance thee down 
To find him in the valley ; let the wild 
Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave 
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill 
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water- 
smoke, 
That like a broken purpose waste in air. 199 
So waste not thou, but oome ; for all the vales 
Await thee ; azure pillars of the hearth 



Arise to thee ; the children call, and I 
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every soaBd, 
Sweeter thy voice, hut every sound £b aweet ; 
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro* the lawn, 
The moan of doves in immemorial eUns, 
And murmuring of innumerable 



So she low-toned, while with shat eyes I 

lay 
Listening, then look'd. Pale was the per* 

feet face; 
The bosom with long sighs labor'd; and 

meek aao 

Seem'd the full lips, and mild the Inminoos 

eyes, 
And the voice trembled and the hand, ^le 

said 
Brokenly, that she knew it, she had fail'd 
In sweet humility, had fail'd in all; 
That all her labor was but as a block 
Left in the quarry; but she still were loth. 
She still were loth to yield herself to one 
That wholly scom'd to help their equal 

rights 
Against the sons of men and ImrUnMi 

laws. 
She pray'd me not to judge their canse 

from her aaa 

That wroug'd it, sought far less for truth 

than power 
In knowledge. Something wild within her 

breast, 
A greater than all knowledge, beat her 

down. 
And she had nursed me there from week to 

week; 
Much had she learnt in little time. In part 
It was ill counsel had misled the girl 
To vex true hearts; yet was she but a 

girl — 
* Ah fool, and made myself a qaeen of 

farce I 
When comes another such ? never, I think, 
Till the sun drop, dead, from the sig^.' 

Her voice 
Choked, and her forehead sank upon her 

hands, sji 

And her great heart thro* all the fanltful 

past 
Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not 

break; 
Till notice of a change in the dark world 
Was lispt about the aca<rias, and a bird. 
That early woke to feed her little ones, 
Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light. 
She moved, and at her feet the volume felL 



PART SEVENTH 



»S9 



■oi tbjaelf too much,' I Mid, 

'■or blame 
IWbmIi the eont of men and barbarous 

kwt; 340 

Iknime the rough ways of the world till 



flMrfbffth thoQ hast a helper, me, that 



Tb woman's eaase is man's; they rise or 

nnk 
T«{ctW, dwarTd or godlike, bond or free. 
F« ibe that oat of Lethe scales with man 
1W iluning steps of Nature, shares with 



Hh sigbls, his days, mores with him to one 

goel, 
^ sU the fair young planet in her 

bands — 
If Ae be small, slight-natured, miserable, 
Bsv shall men grow ? but work no more 

slonel 950 

Ovpbee is much; as far as in ns lies 
Wt two will senre them both in aiding 

WiB desr away the parasitic forms 

Tkit irem to keep her up but drag her 

down — 
^ leave her space to bureeon out of all 
WitUn her — let her mslce herself her 

own 
Tt |i?e or keep, to lire and learn and be 
An thit not harms distinctiTe womanhood. 
Fcr wooian is not undevelopt man, 
Bit diTerse. Could we make her as the 

man, a6o 

Swsrt Lore were slain; his dearest bond 

is this, 
Net like to like, but like in difference. 
Tflt in the long years liker must they 
_^ g»w; 

IBS nan be more of woman, she of man ; 
l/e gain in sweetness and in moral height. 
Sot lose the wrestling thews that throw 

the world ; 
Ske mental breadth, nor fail in cblldward 



Xor lose the childlike in the larger mind; 
Till at the last she set herself to man, 
Like perfect music unto noble words; 970 
And so these twain, upon the skirts of 

Time, 
Sit aide by side, fnll-summ'd in all their 

powers, 
Dinmsiag harrest, sowing the to-be. 
Mi m went eaeh and leverencing eaeh, 



Distinct in indiyidualities, 

But like each other even as those who love. 

Then comes the statelier Eden back to 
men; 

Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste 
and calm; 

Then springs the crowning race of human- 
kind. 979 

May these things be ! ' 

Sighing she spoke: ' I fear 

They will not.' 

' Dear, bnt let us type them now 

In our own liyes, and this proud watch- 
word rest 

Of eonal ; seeing either sex alone 

Is half itself, and in true marriage lies 

Nor equal, nor unequal. Each fulfils 

Defect in each, and always thought in 
thought, 

Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, 

The single pure and perfect animal, 

The two-ceird heart beatings with one full 
stroke, 189 

Life.' 

And again sighing she spoke: * A dream 

That once was mine I what woman taught 
you this ? * 

* Alone,' I said, ' from earlier than I 

know. 
Immersed in rich foreshadowing^ of the 

world, 
I loved the woman. He, that doth not, 

lives 
A drowniue life, besotted in sweet self. 
Or pines m sad experience worse thaa 

death. 
Or keeps his wing*d affections dipt with 

crime. 
Tet was there one thro' whom I loved her, 

one 
Not learned, save in gracious household 

ways. 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants. 
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt sot 
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the gods and men. 
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet 
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread, and all male minds per- 
force 
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they 

moved, ' 
And girdled her with musio. Happy he 
With snob a mother t faith in womankind 



i6o 



THE PRINCESS 



Beats with bis blood, and trust in all things 

high 310 

Comes easj to him, and tho' he trip and &11 
He shall not blind his soul with cUy.* 

• But I,' 
Said Ida, tremulously, ' so all unlike — 
It seems you love to cheat yourself with 

words; 
This mother is your modeL I have heard 
Of your strange doubts; they well might 

be; I seem 
A mockery to my own self. Nerer, Prince I 
You cannot love me/ 

' Nay, but thee,' I said, 
'From yearlong poring on thy pictured 

eye*. 
Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and 

saw s»> 

Thee woman thro' the crust of iron moods 
That mask'd thee from men's reverence 

up, and forced 
Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood; 

now. 
Given back to life, to life indeed, thro' 

thee, 
Indeed I love. The new day comes, the 

ligbt 
Dearer for nieht, as dearer thou for faults 
Lived over. Lift thine eyes; my doubts are 

dead. 
My haunting sense of hollow shows; the 

change. 
This tmthfiu change in thee has kill'd it. 

Dear, 
Look up, and let thy nature strike on 

mine, 330 

Like yonder morning on the blind half- 
world. 
Approach and fear not; breathe upon my 

brows; 
In that fine air I tremble, all the past 
Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and 

this 
Is mom to more, and all the rich to-corae 
Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland 

reels 
Athwart the smoke of bnming weeds. For- 
give me, 
I waste my heart in signs; let be. My 

bride. 
My wife, my life t O, we will walk this 

world. 
Yoked in all exercise of noble end, 340 

And so thro' those dark gates across the 

wild 



That no man knows. Indeed I love tlMt| 

come. 
Yield thyself np; my hopes and thine 

one. 

Accomplish thoa my manhood and tbyiailft 
Lay thy sweet hanoa in mine and trait t0 

me.' 

CONCLUSION 

So doeed our tale, of whieh I givo joa 
The random scheme aa wildly aa it rose. 
The words are mostly mine; for when 

ceased 
There came a minute's panse, and Walta^^ 

said, 
< I wish she had not yielded I ' then to ns^ 
* What if you drest it np poetically I ' 
So pray'd the men, the women; I gai 

assent. 
Yet how to bind the scattered scheme el 

seven 
Together in one sheaf ? What style eoold 

suit? 
The men required that I should m% 

thion^oat » 

The sort of mock-heroic gigantesqoe. 
With which we banter'd Uttle Litia fint; 
The women — and perhaps they felt their 

power. 
For something in the ballads which thej 

sang. 
Or in their silent influence as they sat, 
Had ever seem'd to wrestle with bar- 

lesque, 
And drove us, last, to quite a solemn 

close — 
They hated banter, wish'd for something 

real, 
A gallant fight, a noble princess — why 19 
Not make her true-heroic — true-sublime ? 
Or all, they said, as earnest as the dose ? 
Which yet with such a framework soaroo 

could be. 
Then rose a little feud betwixt the two^ 
Betwixt the mockers and the realists; 
And I, betwixt them both, to please them 

both, 
And yet to give the story as it rose, 
I moved as in a strange diagonal, 
And maybe neither pleased myself uat, 

them. 

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part 
In our dispute; the sequel of the tale m 



CONCLUSION 



i6i 



U iBMk'd ber, mod she sat, she plack'd 

8b tsw it from her, thinking; last, she 

A ihsvirj chuMe upon her aant, and said, 
'Ttt— teU OS what we are ' — who might 

bavetidd, 
Ut ^ was eramm'd with theories out of 

books. 
Bit tbttiwre rose a shout. The gates were 

ek>sed 
Al inset, and the erowd were swarming 



Ittiks their leare, ahout the garden rails. 

8s I sad some went out to these; we 
eUmbM 39* 

Tb ilope to Virian - place, and turning 

•sw 
Tb hmj Tallers, half in light, and half 
Fir iksnowing from the west, a land of 

Gnj balls alone among their massiTe 

grotres; 
Tnm hamlets; here and there a rustic 

tower 
BilMort in belts of hop and breadths of 

wheat; 
Tki ibimmering glimpses of a stream; the 



A nd nil, or a white; and far beyond, 
Tmg iaed more than seen, the skirts of 
Franee. 

'Look there, a garden ! * said mj college 
friend, 
1W Torj member's elder son, ' and there ! 
God bless the narrow sea which keeps her 

off, 5« 

lad keeps onr Britain, whole within her- 

■eif. 
A aatioii jet, the mlers and the ruled — 
Some sense of dutj, something of a faith, 
Some rererenoe for the laws ourseWes have 

made, 

patient tome to change them when 

we will, 

eiTio manhood Arm against the 

erowd — 
Bat jooder, whiff I there comes a sudden 

The graTest ettisen seems to lose his head, 
The lung is seared, the soldier will not 
fl^^t, 60 

TW Ittllt bojs begin to shoot and stab, 



A kingdom topples over with a shriek 
Like an old woman, and down rolls the 

world 
In mock heroics stranger than our own; 
KeTolts, republics, revolutions, most 
No graver than a schoolboys' barring out; 
Too comic for the solemn things they are. 
Too solemn for the comic touches in them. 
Like our wild Princess with as wise a 

dream 
As some of theirs — God bless the narrow 

seas t 70 

I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.* 

' Have patience,' I replied, ' ourselves are 

Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams 
Are but the needful preludes of the truth. 
For me, the genial day, the bappy crowd. 
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith, 
This fine old world of ours is but a child 
Yet in the go-cart. Patience I Give it 

time 
To learn its limbs; there is a hand that 

guides.' 

In such discourse we gain'd the garden 

rails, 80 

And there we saw Sir Walter where he 

stood. 
Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks. 
Among six boys, head under head, and 

look'd 
No little lily-handed baronet he, 
A great bii)ad-shoulder*d genial English- 

man, 
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep, 
A raiser of huge melons atid of pine, 
A patron of some thirty charities, 
A pamphleteer on g^uano and ou grain, 
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none; 90 
Fair-hair*d and redder than a windy mom; 
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of 

those 
That stood the nearest — now address'd to 

speech — 
Who spoke few words and pithy, such as 

closed 
Welcome, farewell, and weleome for the 

year 
To follow. A shout rose again, and made 
The long line of the approaching rookery 

swerve 
From the elms, and shook the branches of 

the deer 



z62 



IN MEMORIAM 



From slope to slope thro* distant ferns, and 

rang 99 

Beyond the bourn of sunset — O, a shout 
More joyful than the city-roar that hails 
Premier or king 1 Why should not these 

great sirs 
Give op their parks some doien times a 

year 
To let the people breathe ? So thrioe they 

cried, 
I likewise, and in g^ups they streamed 

away. 

But we went back to the Abbey, and 
sat on, 
So much the gathering darkness charm'd; 
we sat 



But spoke not, rapt in nameless rererie, 
Perchance upon the future man. Tlie 
Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and oiwl 

whoop'd. 
And gradually the powers of the m^tA, 
That range above the region of the wnd* 
Deepening the courts of twilight 

them up 

Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds. 
Beyond all thought into the heaven of ~ 



yens. 



Last little Lilia, rising quietly, 
Disrobed the glimmering stable of 

Ralph 

From those rich silks, and home well- 
pleased we went. 



IN MEMORIAM A. H. H 

OBllT MDCCCXXXIII 

' In Memoriam ' was first published in 1850. No changfes were made in the seoond and third 
editioiis except the correction of two misprints. In the fonrth edition (1851) the present 59th 
section ('O Sorrow, wilt thoa liye with me?*) was added. The present 39th section ('QU 
warder of these buried bones,* etc) was added in the * Miniatoie Edition * of the * Poems ' (1871). 
Min<» changes are recorded in the Notes. 

Arthur Henry Hallam, to whose memory the poem is a tribute, was the son of Henry Hallam, 
the historian, and was bom in London, Febmary 1, 1811. In 1818 he spent aome months with 
his parents in Italy and Switzerland, where he became familiar with the French langnage, whieh 
he had already learned to read with ease. Latin he also learned to read with facili^ in little 
more than a year. When only eight or nine years old, he began to write tragedies which showed 
remarkable precocity. 

After a brief course in a preparatory school he was sent to Eton, where he remained till 1827* 
He did not distinguish himself as a classical scholar, being more interested in English literature, 
especially the earlier dramatists. He took an active part in the Debating Society, where he 
showed great power in argnmentatave discussion ; and during his last year in the school he began 
to write for the ^ Eton Miscellany.' After leaving Eton he spent eight months with his parents 
in Italy, where he mastered the language and the works of Dante and Petrarch. 

In (October, 1829, he went to Trinity College, Cambridge. There he soon became acquainted 
with the Tennysons. and thus beg^an Uie ever-memorable friendship of which * In Memoriam * is 
the monnmenti Like his friends, he was the pnpil of the Rev. William Whewell. In I80I he 
obtuned the first prize for an English declamation on the oondact of the Independent party 
during the Civil War. In consequence of this success, he was called upon to deliver an oration 
in the chapel before the Christmas vacation, and chose as a subject the influence of Italian upon 
RngligK literature. He also gained a prize for an English essay on the philosophical writings of 
Cicero. 

He left Cambridge on taking his degree in January, 1832. He resided from that time with 
his father in London in 67 Wimpole Street, referred to in * In Memoriam,* viL : — 

Dark houae, by which odc« more I stand 
Here in the long onlOTely street. 

Arthur used to say to his friends, ' You know you wiU always find us at sixes and sevens.' At 
tiie earnest desire of his father he applied himself vigorously to the study of law in the Inner 
Temple, entering, in the month of O^ber, 1832, the office of an emineiit oonveyaneer, with 
whom he oontinned ia\l his depertore from England in the following summer. 



IN MEMORIAM 



163 



Si falktr tells the remainder of the sad story very briefly. Arthur aooompanied him to 
0— isy is the b eg ia ning of AugnsL In returning to Vienna from Pesth, a wet day probably 
pmnm loaa intermittent fever with very slight symptoms, which were apparently subsiding, 
sbs isaddm rash of blood to the head caused his death on the 15th of September, 1883. It 
iffMNd OB sraminatHm that the cerebral vessels were weak, and that there was a lack of 
MHgt ia the hearii In the nsnal chances of humanity a few more years would probably have 

ffii^Wfid remains' were brought to England and interred on the Sd of January, 1834, in 
Oifrfoi Qmreh, Somersetshire, belonging to his maternal grandfather. Sir Abraham Elton. 
TW plM0 wwM seleeted by his father not only from its connection with the family, but also from 
iliHfsiiteffed situation on a lone lull overlooking the Bristol ChanneL 



Snoxo Son of God, immortal Love, 
WImxd we^ that have not seen thy face, 
Bj ftith, and faith alone, embrace, 

Bdiering where we cannot prove; 



ire these orbs of light and shade; 
IVn madest Life in roan and brute; 
IVn madest Death; and lo, thy foot 
Ii 00 the skull which thou hast made. 

ThoQ wilt not leave us in the dust: 
Hm madest man, he knows not whj, 
Ha thinks be was not made to die; 

Aid thoa hast made him: thou art just. 

H^ ■ sero est human and divine, 
Tlw higbeflt, holiest manhood, thou. 
Osr w9u are oars, we know not how; 

Oir wiUs are ours, to make them thine. 

Otr little sjrstems have their day; 

They have their day and cease to be; 

TWt are bot broken lights of thee, 
Aad tkm, O Lord, art more than thej. 

ITe have hot faith: we cannot know, 
For knowledge is of things we see; 
And yet we tmst it comes from thee, 

A beam in darkness: let it grow. 



Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
Bot more of reverence in os dwell; 
That mind and soul, aecording well, 

Ifaj niake one mnsie as before, 

Bat vastor. We are fools and slight; 
We moek thee when we do not fear: 
Bat help thy foolish ones to bear; 

Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light 

Fofvive what aeem'd my sin in me, 
What aoom'd my worth since I began; 
For Bwrii livea fh>m man to man, 

4ad Bol iitND man, O Lord, to thee. 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 
l%y creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust be lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 

Forgive these wild and wandering cries. 
Confusions of a wasted youth; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 

And in thy wisdom make me wise. 
1849. 



I held it truth, with him who sings 
To one clear harp in divers tones. 
That men may rise on stepping«tones 

Of their dead selves to higher things. 

But who shall so forecast the years 
And find iu loss a gain to match ? 
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch 

The far-off interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drowned, 
Let darkness keep her raven gloss. 
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, 

To dance with Death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 
The long result of love, and boast, 
* Behold the man that loved and lost. 

But all he was is overworn.' 

II 

Old yew, which graspest at the stones 
That name the underlying dead, 
Thy fibres net the dreamless head. 

Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again, 
And bring the firstling to the flock; 
And in the dusk of thee the clock 

Beats oat the little lives of men. 



i64 



IN M£MORIAM 



O, not for thee the glow, the hloom, 
Who chan^t not in any gale, 
Nor branding sommer sons avail 

To touch thy thoosand years of gloom; 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree. 
Sick for thy stabbom hardihood, 
I seem to ndl from out my blood 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

Ill 

O Sorrow, cmel fellowship, 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 

sweet and bitter in a breath. 
What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

' The stars,' she whispers, ' blindly ran; 

A web is woven across the sky; 

From oat waste places comes a cry, 
And murmurs from the dying sun; 

* And all the phantom. Nature, stands — 

With all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of ray own, — 
A hollow form with empty hands.' 

And shall I take a thing so blind. 
Embrace her as my natural good; 
Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 

Upon the threshold of the mind 7 

IV 

To Sleep I give my powers away; 
My will is bondsman to the dark; 

1 sit within a helmless bark, 
And with my heart I muse and say: 

O heart, how fares it with thee now. 
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire. 
Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

* What is it makes me beat so low ? * 

Something it is which thou hast lost, 
Some pleasure from thine early years. 
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears. 

That grief hath shaken into frost ! 

Snch clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darken'd eyes; 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

* Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.' 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 
To Dttt in words the erief I feel: 



For words, like Nature, half lewd 
And half conceal the Sool within. 

But, for the nnqniet heart and hnda, 
A use in measured language lies; 
The sad mechanic exercise. 

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, 1 11 wrap me o'er. 
Like coarsest dothes against tiie eold; 
But that large grief which these e 
fold 

Is given in outline and no more. 

VI 

One writes, that ' other friends remain,' 
That ' loss is common to the race ' — 
And common is the commonplace. 

And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter, rather more. 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be. 
Who pledgest now thy gallant son, 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done. 

Hath stiird the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
His heavy-shotted hammock-ehroad 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Te know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, something thoagi 

Expecting still his advent home; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, < here to-day,' 

Or * here to-morrow will he come.' 

O, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging gulden hair; 
And ^lad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love I 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest; 

And thinking 'this will please hi 
best,' 
She takes a riband or a rosA* 



IN MEMORIAM 



i6s 



For he wQl see them on to-night; 

And with the thought her color bums; 

And, bftTing left the ghiss, she tarns 
Onee mora to set a ringlet right; 

And, even when she tum'd^ the curse 
Had &lleny and her future lord 
Was diown'd in passing thro' the f ord. 

Or kill'd in falling from his horse. 

0, what to her shall be the end ? 

A&d what to me remains of good ? 

To her perpetual maidenhood, 
And onto me no second friend. 

VII 

Dark house, bj which once more I stand 
Here in the long unlovely street, 
Doors, where m j heart was used to beat 

80 qoieklj, waiting for a hand, 

A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
^MA me, for I cannot sleep, 
^ like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here; but far away 
^ noiBe of life beeins again, 
And ffhastly thro' the drizzling rain 

On the bold street breaks the blank day. 

VIII 

^ ^^Vf7 lorer who has come 
To look on her that loves him well, 
Who lights and rings the gateway bell, 

And learns her gone and far from home; 

He saddens, all the magic Ught 
Dies off at once from bower and hall, 
And all the place is dark, and all 

^ chambers emptied of delight: 

&> And I every pleasant spot 
In which we two were wont to meet. 
The field, the chamber, and the street. 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower beat with rain and wind. 

Which once she foster 'd up with care; 

Bo seems it in my deep regret, 
my forsaken heart, with thee 



And this poor flower of poesy 
Which, little cared for, fades not yet. 

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, 
I go to plant it on his tomb. 
That if it can it there may bloom. 

Or, dying, there at least may die. 

IX 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, 

Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 
In vain; a favorable speed 
Ruffle thy mirror *d mast, and lead 

Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
As our pure love, thro' early light 

Shall gUmmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above; 

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; 

Sleep, fi^ntle winds, as he sleeps now. 
My friend, the brother of my love; 

Mv Arthur, whom I shall not see 
Till all my widow'd race be run; 
Dear as the mother to the son. 

More than my brothers are to me. 



I hear the noise about thy keel; 

I hear the bell struck in the night; 

I see the cabin-window bright; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, 
And travell'd men from foreign lanoa^ 
And letters unto trembling hands: 

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life. 

So brine him; we have idle dreams; 
This Took of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies. O, to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover sod. 

That takes the sunshine and the rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God; 



\ 



i66 



IN MEMORIAM 



Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine, 
And hands so often clasp'd in mine, 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 

XI 

Calm is the mom without a sound, 
Calm as to suit a calmer grief, 
And only thro' the faded leaf 

The chestnut pattering to the ground; 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the furze. 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold; 

Calm and still light on yon great plain 
That sweeps with all its autunm bow- 
ers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers. 

To mingle with the bounding main; 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the fall, 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair; 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest, 
And dead calm in that noble breast 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

XII 

Lo, as a dove when up she springs 
To bear thro' heaven a tale of woe. 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsation of her wings; 

Like her I go, I cannot stay; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, 
A weight of nerves withont a mind, 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors ronnded large, 
And reach the glow of southern skies. 
And see the sails at distance rise. 

And linger weeping on the marge. 

And sayin?, < Comes he thus, my friend ? 

Is this the end of all my care ? ' 

And circle moaning in the air, 
* Is this the end ? Is this the end ? * 

And forward dart again, and play 
About the prow, and back return 



To where the body sits, and learn 
That I have been an hour away. 

XIII 

Tears of the widower, when he sees 
A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels 

Her place is empty, fall like thcMe; 

Which weep a loss for ever new, 
A void where heart on heart reposed; 
And, where warm hands have prest and 
closed. 

Silence, till I be silent too; 

Which weep the comrade of my choice, 
An awful thought, a life removed. 
The human-hearted man I loved, 

A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 

Come, Time, and teach me, many years, 

I do not suffer in a dream; 

For now so strange do these things seem. 
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears. 

My fancies time to rise on wing, 
And glance about the approaching sails, 
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales. 

And not the burthen that they bring. 

XIV 

If one should bring me this report. 
That thou hadst touch'd the land to-day, 
And I went down unto the quay. 

And found thee lying in the port; 

And standing, mufiSed round with woe. 
Should see thy passengers in rank 
Come stepping lightly down the planlc 

And beckomng unto those they know; 

And if along with these should come 
The man I held as half-divine. 
Should strike a sudden hand in mine^ 

And ask a thousand things of home; 

And I should tell him all my pain, 
And how my life had droop d of lato, 
And he should sorrow o'er my state 

And marvel what possess'd my brain; 

And I perceived no touch of change 
No hint of death in all his frame. 
But found him all in all the same, 

I should not feel it to be strange. 



IN MEMORIAM 



167 



XV 

To-ttfht the winds begin to rise 
Aid roar from jonder dropping day; 
IW lift red leaf is whirl'd away, 

Th» roob are blown about tbe skies; 

1W focMi erack'd, tbe waters curl'd. 
The esttle huddled on the lea; 
Aid wildly dasb'd on tower and tree 

The nmbeam strikes along the world: 

JUd bst for fancies, which aver 
Thtit all thy motions gently pass 
AUiwirt a plane of molten glass, 

1 tome eonld brook tbe strain and stir 

Tlit makes tbe barren branches loud; 
Aid but for fear it is not so, 
1^ wild unrest that lives in woe 

Woeld dote and pore on yonder cloud 

Tkt riles upward always higher, 
And onward drags a laboring breast. 
And topples roimd the dreary west, 

A loQouDg bastioo fringed witb fire. 

XVI 

Wlit words are these have fallen from 
me? 

Cia ealm despur and wild nnrest 

Be tenants of a single breast, 
OrSoRow sueb a changeling be ? 

Or doth she only seem to take 
Utt touch of change in calm or Rtorm, 
fiat knows no more of trannient form 

li ker deep self, than some dead lake 

7W holds the shadow of a lark 
Hnag in tbe shadow of a heaven ? 
Or Ins tbe shock, so harshly given, 

Coafnsed me like the unhappy htLtk 

IW ftrikes by night a craggy shelf, 
And staggers blindly ere she sink ? 
And stonn'd me from my power to think 

Aid an my knowledge of myself; 

Aad nHide me that delirious man 
Wboee fancy fuses old and new, 
Aad flashw into false and true, 

Aid ming'rf all without a plan 7 



XVII 

Thou comest, much wept for; such a breeze 
Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer 
Was as the whisper of an air 

To breathe thee over lonely seas. 

For I in spirit saw thee move 
Thro' circles of the bounding sky, 
Week after week; the days go by; 

Come quick, thou bringest all I love. 

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam« 
My blessing, like a line of light, 
Is on the waters day and night. 

And like a beacon guards thee home. 

So may whatever tempest mars 
Mid-ocean spare thee, sacred bark. 
And balmy drops in summer dark 

Slide from the bosom of the stars; 

So kind an office hath been done. 
Such precious relics brought by thee, 
The dust of him I shall not see 

Till all my widow'd race be run. 

XVIII 

*T is well; *t is something; we may stand 
Where he in English earth is hud. 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'T is little; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest 
Among familiar names to rest 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure bands, and bear tbe 
head 
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
And come, whatever loves to weep. 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah yet, even yet, if this might be, 
I« falling on his faithful heart. 
Would breathing thro' his lips impart 

The life that almost dies in me; 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind. 
Treasuring the look it cannot find. 

The words that are not heard again. 



i6i 



IN MEMORIAM 



XIX 

The Danube to the Seyem gave 
The darkened heart that beat no more; 
They laid him by the pleasant shorei 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Seyem fills; 
The salt sea-water passes by, 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hush'd nor moved along, 
And hush'd my deepest grief of all, 
When fill'd with tears that cannot fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

The tide flows down, the wave again 

Is vocal in its wooded walls; 

My deeper anguish also falls. 
And I can speak a little then. 

XX 

The lesser g^efs that may be said, 
That breathe a thousand tender vows, 
Are but as servants in a house 

Where lies the master newly dead; 

Who speak their feeling as it is, 

And weep the fulness from the mind. 
' It will be hard/ they say, 'to find 

Another service such as this.' 

My lighter moods are like to these. 
That out of words a comfort win; 
But there are other griefs within, 

And tears that at their fountain freeze; 

For by the hearth the children sit 
Cold in that atmosphere of death, 
And scarce endure to draw the breath. 

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit; 

But open converse is there none, 
So much the vital spirits sink 
To see the vacant chair, and think, 

' How good ! how kind I and he is gone.* 

XXI 

J sing to him that rests below. 

And, since the grasses round me wave, 
I take the grasses of the grave. 

And make them pipes whereon to blow* 



The traveller hears me now and then. 
And sometimes harshly will he speak: 
' This fellow would make weakness weak, 

And melt the waxen hearts of men.' 

Another answers: 'Let him be, 
He loves to make parade of pain. 
That with his piping he may gain 

The praise that comes to oonstanej.' 

A third is wroth: * Is this an hour 
For private sorrow's barren song. 
When more and more the people tIiion(|^ 

The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 

' A time to sicken and to swoon, 
When Science reaches forth her arms 
To feel from world to world, and charma 

Her secret from the latest moon ? ' 

Behold, ye speak an idle thing; 

Te never knew the sacred dust. 

I do but sing because I must. 
And pipe but as the linnets sing; 

And one is glad; her note is gay, 
For now her little ones have ranged; 
And one is sad; her note b changed. 

Because her brood is stolen away. 

XXII 

The path by which we twain did go. 

Which led by tracts that pleasid ns well, 
Thro' four sweet years arose and fell. 

From flower to flower, from snow to snow; 

And we with singing cheer'd the war. 
And, orown'd with all the season lent^ 
From April on to April went, 

And glad at heart from May to May. 

But where the path we walk'd began 
To slant the fifth autumnal slope, 
As we descended following Hope, 

There sat the Shadow fear'd of man; 

Who broke our fair companionship. 
And spread his mantle daric and cold* 
And wrapt thee formless in the fold. 

And dull'd the murmur on thy lip. 

And bore thee where I could not see 
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste. 
And think that somewhere in the waste 

The Shadow sits and waits for me* 



IN MEMORIAM 



169 



Saw, wmetimei in my sorrow shut. 
Or hreakiog into song bj fits, 
Mmb, alone, to where he sits, 

Ute Shadow doak'd from head to f oot. 

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
I wander, often falling lame. 
And loolang kiack to whence I came, 
Or on to where the pathway leads; 

And dying, How changed from where it 
ran 
Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb. 
But all the lavish hills would hum 

The mormur of a happy Pan; 

When each by turns was jniide to each, 
And Fancy light from Fancy caught, 
And Thought leapt out to wed with 
Thought 

£re Thought could wed itself with Speech; 

And all we met was fair and good. 

And all was good that Time could bring, 
And all the secret of the Spring 

Mored in the chambers of the bl(K>d; 

And many an old philosophy 

On Argiye heights divinely sang. 
And round us all the thicket rang 

To many a flute of Arcady. 

XXIV 

And was the day of my delight 
As pore and perfect as I say ? 
The very source and fount of day 

Is dash'd with wandering isles of night 

If all was good and fair we met. 
This eax& had been the Paradise 
It never look'd to human eyes 

8inee our first sun arose and set. 

And is it that the haze of grief 

Makes former gladness loom so great ? 
The lowness of the present state. 

That sets the past in this relief ? 

Or that the past will always win 

A glory from its being far, 

And orb into the perfect star 
We saw not when we moved therein ? 



XXV 

I know that this was Life, — the track 
Whereon with equal feet we fared; 
And then, as now, the daj^ prepared 

The daily burden for the back. 

But this it was that made me move 
As light as carrier-birds in air; 
I loved the weight I had to bear. 

Because it needed help of Love; 

Nor could I weary, heart or limb. 
When mighty Love would cleave ia 

twain 
The lading of a single paiu, 

And part it, giving h^ to him. 

XXVI 

Still onward winds the dreary way; 
I with it, for I long to prove 
No lapse of moons can canker Love, 

Whatever fickle tongues may say. 

And if that eye which watches guilt 
And goodness, and bath power to see 
Within the green the moulder'd tree. 

And towers fallen as soon as built — 

Of if indeed that eye foresee 
Or see — in Him is no before — 
In more of life true life no more 

And Love the indifference to be, 

Then might I find, ere yet the mom 
Breaks hither over Indian seas. 
That Shadow waiting with the keys. 

To shroud me from my proper scorn. 

XXVII 

I envy not in any moods 
The captive void of noble rage. 
The linnet bom within the cage. 

That never knew the summer woodsj 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time. 
Unfettered by the sense of crime, 

To whom a conscience never wakes; 

Nor, what may count itself as blest. 
The heart that never plighted troth 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 



ryo 



IN MEMORIAM 



I hold it true, whate'er befall; 

I feel it, when I sorrow most; 

'T is better to have loyed and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

XXVIII 

The time draws near the birth of Christ. 

The moon is hid, the night is still; 

The Christmas bells from hill to hill 
Answer each other in the mist. 

Four voices of four hamlets round. 
From far and near, on mead and moor, 
Swell out and fail, as if a door 

Were shut between me and the sound; 

Each voice four changes on the wind, 
That now dilate, and now decrease. 
Peace and goodwill, g^oodwill and peace, 

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 

This year I slept and woke with pain, 
I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
And that my hold on life would break 

Before I heard those bells again; 

But they my troubled spirit rule, 
For they controU'd me when a boy; 
They bring me sorrow toach*d with 

The merry, merry bells of Tule. 

XXIX 

With such compelling cause to g^eve 
As daily vexes household peace, 
And chains regret to his decease. 

How dare we keep our Christmas-eve, 

Which brings no more a welcome guest 
To enrich the threshold of the night 
With showered largess of delight 

In dance and song and game and jest ? 

Tet go, and while the holly boughs 
Entwine the cold baptismal font. 
Make one wreath more for Use and 
Wont, 

That guard the portals of the house; 

Old sisters of a day gone by. 

Gray nurses, loving nothing new — 
Why should they miss their yearly 
due 

Before their time ? They too will die. 



XXX 

With trembling fingers did we 

The holly round the ChriBtiiuis heartii; 

A rainy cloud possess'd the earth. 
And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 

At our old pastimes in the hall 

We gamboll'd, making vain pretenee 
Of gladness, with an awful sense 

Of one mate Shadow watching all. 

We paused: the winds were in the beeoh; 

We heard them sweep the winter huid; 

And in a circle hand-m-hand 
Sat silent, looking each at each. 

Then echo-like our voices rang; 
We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
A merry song we sang with him 

Last year; impetuously we sang. 

We ceased; a gentler feeling crept 

Upon us: surely rest is meet. 

' They rest,' we said, ' their sleep la 
sweet,' 
And silence folloVd, and we wept. 

Our voices took a higher range; 

Once more we sang: *They do not die 
Nor lose their mortal sympathy, 

Nor change to ns, although they change; 

' Rapt from the fickle and the frail 
With gather*d power, yet the same. 
Pierces the keen seraphic flame 

From orb to orb, from veil to veil.' 

Rise, happy mom, rise, holy mom, 

Draw forth the cheerful day from night: 
O Father, touch the east, and light 

The light that shone when Hope was bom. 

XXXI 

When Lazams left his chamel-caye. 
And home to Mary's honse retani'd. 
Was this demanded — if he yeem'd 

To hear her weeping by his grave ? 

'Where wert thou, brother, those four 
days?' 
There lives no record of reply. 
Which telline what it is to die 

Had surely added praise to praise. 



IN MEMORIAM 



171 



From ereiy hoiue the neighbors met, 
^nie streeti were flll*d with joyful sound, 
A aolemii gladness eren crown'd 

Ufte pazple mows of Oliyet. 

Bebold a man raised np bj Christ I 
The rest remaineth unreyeal'd; 
He told it not, or something seal'd 

The lipe of that Evangelist. 

xxxn 

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
Nor other thought her mind aamits 
Bnt, he was dead, and there he sits. 

And hie that brought him back is there. 

Then one deep loye doth supersede 
All other, when her ardent gaze 
Bores from the Hying brother's fiioe, 

Ajid rests upon the Life indeed. 

An subtle thought, all curious fears, 
Borne down by gladness so complete. 
She bows, she bathes the Sayiour's feet 

With eottly spikenard and with tears. 

Thriee blest whose liyes are faithful 
prayers, 

Whose loyes in higher loye endure; 

What souls possess themselyes so pure. 
Or ia there blessedness like theirs ? 



xxxin 

O thoa that after toil and storm 

Mayst seem to haye reach'd a purer 

air. 
Whose faith has centre eyerywhere. 

Nor eaxes to fix itself to form. 



Leeye thou thy sirter when she prays 
Her early hsayen, her happy yiews; 
Nor thou with shadow'd nmt confuse 

A life that leads melodious days. 

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
Her hands are quicker nnto good. 
Oy sacred be the flesh and blood 

To which she links a truth diyine I 

See thoo, that countest reason ripe 
In holding by the law within, 
Thoa fail not in a world of sin. 

And eyen for want of such a type. 



XXXIV 

Myown dim life should teach me this, 
That life shall live for eyeimore. 
Else earth is darkness at the core. 

And dust and ashes all that is; 

This round of green, this orb of flame, 
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks 
In some wild poet, when he works 

Without a conscience or an aim. 

What then were God to such as I ? 

'T were hardly worth my while to choose 
Of things all mortal, or to use 

A little patience ere I die; 

'T were best at once to sink to peace. 
Like birds the charming serpent draws. 
To drop head-foremost m the jaws 

Of yacant darkness and to cease. 



XXXV 

Yet if some yoice that man could trust 
Should murmur from the narrow house, 
* The cheeks drop in, the body bows; 

Man dies, nor is there hope in dust; ' 

Might I not say ? * Yet eyen here, 
But for one hour, O Loye, I striye 
To keep so sweet a thing alive.' 

But I should turn mine ears and hear 

The meanings of the homeless sea. 

The sound of streams that swift or sIot* 
Draw down .£onian hills, and sow 

The dust of continents to be; 

And Love would answer with a sigh, 
< The sound of that forgetful shore 
Will change my sweetness more and 
more. 

Half-dead to know that I shall die.' 

O me, what profits it to put 
An idle case ? If Death were seen 
At first as Death, Love bad not been. 

Or been in narrowest working shut, 

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, 
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape 
Had bruised the herb and crush'd the 
grape. 

And bask'd and batten'd in the woods. 



172 



IN MEMORIAM 



XXXVI 

Tho' trnths in manhood darkly join, 
Deep-seated in our mystic frame. 
We yield all blessing to the name 

Of Him that made them current coin; 

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers, 
Where truth in closest words shall fail, 
When truth embodied in a tale 

Shall enter in at lowly doors. 

And so the Word had breath, and wrought 
With human hands the creed of creeds 
In loveliness of perfect deeds. 

More strong than all poetic thought; 

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, 
Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
And those wild eyes that watch the 
wave 

In roaring^ round the coral reef. 

XXXVII 

Urania speaks with darkened brow: 
'Thou pratest here where thou art least; 
This faith has many a purer priest, 

And many an abler voice than thou. 

* Gro down beside thy native rill. 

On thy Parnassus set thy feet. 
And hear thy laurel whisper sweet 
About the ledges of the hill.' 

And my Melpomene replies, 

A touch of shame upon her cheek: 
' I am not worthy even to speak 

Of thy prevailing mysteries; 

' For I am but an earthly Muse, 
And owning but a little art 
To lull with song an aching heart, 

And render human love his dues; 

* But brooding on the dear one dead, 

And all he said of things divine, — ^ 
And dear to me as sacred wine 
To dying lips is all he said, — 

< I murmur'd, as I came along. 

Of comfort dasp'd in truth reveal'd. 
And loiter'd in the master's field, 

And darkened sanctities with song.' 



XXX vin 

With weary steps I loiter 00, 
Tho' always under alter'd skies 
The purple from the distance dieSi 

My prospect and horizon gone. 

Nojoy the blowing season giveSy 
Tne herald melodies of spring. 
But in the songs I love to sing 

A doubtful gleam of solace lives. 

If any care for what is here 
Survive in ^irits render'd free. 
Then are these songs I sing of thee 

Not all ungrateful to thine ear. 

XXXIX 

Old warder of these buried bones. 

And answering now my random stroki 
With fruitful cloud and living smoke. 

Dark yew, that graspest at the stones 

And dippest toward the dreamless head. 
To thee too comes the golden hoar 
When flower is feeling after flower; 

But Sorrow, — fixt upon the dead. 

And darkening the dark graves of men. 
What whisper'd from her lying lips ? 
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, 

And passes into gloom again. 

XL 

Could we forget the widow'd hour 
And look on Spirits breathed away, 
As on a maiden in the day 

When first she wears her orange-flower ! 

When crown'd with blessing she doth ris 
To take her latest leave of home. 
And hopes and light regrets that come 

Make April of her tender eyes; 

And doubtful joys the father move. 
And tears are on the mother's face. 
As parting with a long embrace 

She enters other realms of love; 

Her ofiBoe there to rear, to teach. 
Becoming as is meet and fit 
A link among the days, to knit 

The generations each with each; 



IN MEMORIAM 



173 



i, dwVflaM, onto tliee is giTon 
L Ufs thai bemn immortal fruit 
I tbote great offices that suit 
t fftU-groini energies of heayen. 

SM, the difference I discern ! 
low often shall her old fireside 
te dieer'd with tidings of the bride, 
V often she herself return, 

1 tell them all they would have told, 
Lad bring her babe, and make her 

botit, 
!111 efen those that miss'd her most 
ill eottot new things as dear as old; 

; tlMQ and I hare shaken hands, 
HI growing winters lay roe low; 
Ij piths are in the fields I know, 
i thioe in undiscoyer'd lands. 

XLI 

' nirit ere our fatal loss 
w erer rise from high to higher, 
J noaots the heavenward lutar-fire, 
Bits the lighter thro' the gross. 

tbo« ait tum'd to something strange, 
sd I hare lost the links that bound 
kj ehsnges; here npon the ground, 
more partaker of thy change. 

p foUy t Tet that this could be — 
m I could wing my will with might 
> leap the grades of life and light, 
flash at once, my friend, to thee! 

tho* my nature rarely yields 
» that yague fear implied in death, 
ir shudders at the g^ilfs beneath, 
bowlings from forgotten fields; 

ift when sundown skirts the moor 
I inner trouble 1 behold, 
ipectnd doubt which makes me cold, 
1 shall be thy mate no more, 

following with an upward mind 
e wonders that haye come to thee, 
ro' all the secular to-be, 
tyermore a life behind. 

XLn 

my heart with fancies dim. 
still outstript me in the race; 



It was but unity of place 
That made me diioam I rank'd with hinL 

And so may Place retain us still, 
And he the much-beloved again, 
A lord of large experience, train 

To riper growth the mind and will; 

And what delights can equal those 
That stir the spirit's inner deeps, 
When one that loves, but knows not, reaps 

A truth from one that loves and knows ? 

XLIII 

If Sleep and Death be truly one. 
And every spirit's folded bloom 
Thro' all its intervital gloom 

In some long trance should slumber on; 

Unconscious of the sliding hour. 
Bare of the body, roight it last. 
And silent traces of the past 

Be all the color of the flower: 

So then were nothing lost to man; 

So that still garden of the souls 

In many a figured leaf enrolls 
The total world since life began; 

And love will last as pure and whole 
As when he loved me here in Time, 
And at the spiritual prime 

Rewaken with the dawning soul. 

XLIV 

How fares it with the happy dead ? 

For here the man is more and more; 

But he forgets the days before 
God shut the doorways of his head. 

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint. 
And yet perhaps the hoarding sense 
Gives out at times — he knows not 
whence — 

A little flash, a mystic hint; 

And in the long harmonious years — 
If Death so taste Lethesn springs — 
May some dim touch of earthly things 

Surprise thee ranging with thy peers. 

If such a dreamy touch should fall, 
O, turn thee round, resolve the doubt; 
My guardian angel will speak out 

In that high place, and tell thee all. 



174 



IN MEMORIAM 



XLV 

The baby new to earth and sky, 
What time his tender palm is prest 
Ag^ainst the circle of the breast. 

Has never thought that ' this is I;' 

But as he grows he gathers much, 
And learns the use of < I ' and ' me/ 
And iinds * I am not what I see, 

And other than the things I touch.' 

So rounds he to a separate mind 
From whence clear memory may be- 

As thro' the frame that binds him in 
His isolation grows defined. 

This use may lie in blood and breath, 
Which else were fruitless of their due, 
Had man to learn himself anew 

Beyond the second birth of death. 

XLVI 

We ranging down this lower track. 

The path we came by, thorn and flower, 
Is shadow'd by the growing hour, 

Lest life should fail in looking back. 

So be it: there no shade can last 
In that deep dawn behind the tomb, 
But clear from marge to marge shall 
bloom 

The eternal landscape of the past; 

A lifelong tract of time reyeal'd. 
The fruitful hours of still increase; 
Days order' d in a wealthy peace, 

And those five years its richest field. 

O Love, thy province were not large, 
A bounded field, nor stretching far; 
Look also, Love, a brooding star, 

A rosy warmth from marge to marge. 

XLvn 

That each, who seems a separate whole, 
Should move his rounds, and fusing 

aU 
The skirts of self again, should fall 

Remerging in the general Soul, 

Is faith as vag^e as all nnsweet. 
Eternal form shall still divide 



The eternal soul from all beside; 
And I shall know him when we meet; 

And we shall sit at endless feast, 
£njoying each the other's good. 
What vaster dream can hit the mood 

Of Love on earth ? He seeks at least 

Upon the last and sharpest heigfat^ 
JBefore the spirits faae away, 
Some landing-place, to clasp and say, 

' Farewell I We lose ooraelves in liglii.* 

XLvm 

If these brief lays, of Sorrow bom. 
Were taken to be such as closed 
Grave doubts and answers here proposed, 

Then these were such as men mig^t seom. 

Her care is not to part and prove; 
She takes, when harsher moods remit. 
What slender shade of doubt may flit^ 

And noakes it vassal unto love; 

And hence, indeed, she sports with words. 
But better serves a wholesome law. 
And holds it sin and shame to draw 

The deepest measure from the ekords; 

Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
But rather loosens from the lip 
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 

Their wings in tears, and skim away. 

XLIX 

From art, from nature, from the schools. 
Let random influences glance. 
Like light in many a shiver'd lanoe 

That breaks about the dappled pools. 

The lightest wave of thought shall lisp. 
The fancy's tenderest eddy wreathe. 
The slightest air of song shall breathe 

To make the sullen surface crisp. 

And look thy look, and go thy way. 

But blame not thou the winds that make 
The seeming^wanton npple break. 

The tender>pencill'd shadow play. 

Beneath all fancied hopes and fears 
Ay me, the sorrow deepens down. 
Whose muffled motions blindly drown 

The bases of my life in tears. 



IN MEMORIAM 



»7S 



B0 Dear Bke when m j lij^t is low, 
Wkn tbt Mood oreept, and the nenres 

priek 
Aid tafk; and tlie haart is sick, 

AadaQ tM whaala of being ilow. 

Bt Mir ne when tlie aensaoiis frame 
Ii nek'd with pangi that conquer truit; 
Aid Tune, a maniac scattering dust. 

Aid Life, a Fury slinging iBame. 

Be Mir me when my huth is dry. 
Aid men the flies of latter spring, 
That kj their eggs, and stine and sing 

Aid wesTe their petty oells and die. 

Bt Mir ne when I fmde away, 
To poiit the term of human itrif e, 
Am 00 the low dark verge of life 

Ik twilight of eternal day. 

LI 

D» ve indeed desire the dead 
Sboold still be near us at our side ? 
Ii tiiere no baseness we would hide 7 

No iuer Tileneis that we dread ? 

SkD he for whose applause I stroye, 
I hid inch rererence for his blame, 
Sm with dear eye some hidden shame 

Aid I be leesen'd in his lore ? 

' VToig the graTe with fears untrue. 

(Ullore be blamed for want of faith ? 

There must be wisdom with great Death ; 
The dead shall look me thro' and thro'. 

Be isar ns when we climb or fall; 
Te wateht like God, the rolling honra 
With larser other eyes than ours, 

To make allowance for us alL 

LII 

I eumot lore thee as I ought. 
For loTc reflects the thing belored; 
My words are only words, and mored 

Upon the topmost froth of Uiought. 

' Yet blame not thou thy plaintiye song,' 
The Spirit of true lore replied ; 
'Tbott eaast not move me from thy 
side, 

Vqw Vnoaa frmilty do me wrong. 



' What keeps a spirit wholly true 
To that ideal which he bears 7 
What record ? not the sinless years 

That breathed beneath the Syrian blue; 

< So fret not, like an idle girl, 

That life is dash'd with flecks of sin. 
Abide; thy wealth is gather'd in. 

When Time hath stinder'd shell from 
peaii.' 

LIII 

How many a father have I seen, 
A sober man, among his boys. 
Whose 3'oath was fall of foolish noise, 

Who wears his manhood hale and green; 

And dare we to this fancy give. 
That bad the wild oat not been sown, 
The soil, left barren, scarce had grown 

The grain by which a num may live ? 

Or, if we held the doctrine sound 
For life outliving heats of youth. 
Yet who would preach it as a truth 

To those that eddy round and round ? 

Hold thou the good, define it well; 

For fear divine Philosophy 

Should push beyond her mark, and be 
Procuress to the Lords of Hell. 

LIV 

O, yet we trust that somehow good 
WiU be the final goal of ill. 
To pangs of nature, sins of will. 

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; 

That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
That not one life shall be destroy'd^ 
Or oast as rubbish to the void. 

When God hath made the pile complete; 

That not a worm is cloven in vain; 
That not a moth with vain desire 
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire, 

Or but subserves another's gain. 

Behold, we know not anything; 
I can but trust that good ahall fall 
At last — far off — at last, to all. 

And every winter change to spring. 

80 runs my dream; hot what am I ? 
An infant crying in the night; 



t76 



IN MEMORIAM 



An infant crying for the light| 
4nd with no Unguage hot a cry. 

LV 

The wish, that of the living whole 
No life maj fail heyond the graye. 
Derives it not from what we have 

The likest God within the sool 7 

Are God and Nature then at strife, 
That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
So careful of the type she seems, 

So careless of the single life. 

That I, considering everywhere 
Her secret meaning in her deeds, 
And finding that of fifty seeds 

She often brings but one to bear, 

I falter where I firmly trod, 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world's idtar-stairs 

That slope thro' darkness up to God, 

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 
And gather dust and chaff, and oaXl 
To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope. 

LVI 

* So careful of the type ? ' but no. 

From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
She cries, ' A thousand types are gone; 

I care for nothing, all shall go. 

*Thou makest thine appeal to me. 

I bring to life, I bring to death; 

The spirit does but mean the breath: 
I know no more.' And he, shall he, 

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair. 
Such splendid purpose in his eyes. 
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies. 

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer. 

Who trusted Grod was love indeed 
And love Creation's final law — 
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw 

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
Who battled for the True, the Just, 
Be blown about the desert dust, 

Or seal'd within the iron hills ? 



No more ? A moofter then, a draam, 
A diaooxd. Dragons of the prime. 
That tare each other in their aUme, 

Were mellow music mateh'd with him. 

life as futile, then, as frail ! 
O for thy voice to soothe and bleas I 
What hope of answer, or redress ? 

Behind the veil, behind the veiL 

Lvn 

Peace; come away: the song of woe 

Is after all an earthly sons. 

Peace; come away: we donim wrong 
To sing so wildly: let ns go. 

Come; let ns go: yonr cheeks are pale; 

But half my life I leave behind. 

Methinks my friend is richlv 
But I shall pass, mj work will ttdL 

Tet in these ears, till hearing dies, 
One set slow bell will seem to toll 
The passing of the sweetest soul 

That ever lo<»'d with homan eyes. 

1 h€3tf it now, and o'er and o'er. 
Eternal greetings to the dead; 
And < Ave, Ave, Ave,' said, 

' Adieu, adieu,' for evermore. 

Lvin 

In those sad words I took fareweO. 
Like echoes in sepulchral halls. 
As drop by drop the water falls 

In vaults and catacombs, they fell; 

And, falling, idly broke the peace 
Of hearts that beat from day to day, 
Half-conscious of their dying clay. 

And those cold crypts where they shs 
cease. 

The high Muse answer'd: 'Wherefoi 
grieve 

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 

Abide a little longer here. 
And thou shalt take a nobler leave.' 

LIX 

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me 
No casual mistress, but a wife. 
My bosom-friend and half of life} 

As I confess it needs mnst be ? 



IN MEMORIAM 



177 



Soirov, wilt thott rale my blood, 
Be khmHwim loTelj like a bride, 
Aid pat thy harsher moods aside, 

K tkoi wilt tm^e me wise and good ? 

Hf entisd paatkm eamiot moye, 
)^Qr will it leasen from to-dt»y ; 
Btt 111 have leare at times to play 

ii witk the ereature of my love; 

Aid Ki thee forth, for thoo art mine, 
With 10 mneh hope for years to eome, 
TW, bowsoe*er I know thee, some 

C«U baldly tell what name were thine. 

LX 

He put, a soul of nobler tone; 
liT ipirit loyed and loyes hun yet. 
Like tome poor girl whose heart is set 

Ob one whose rank exceeds her own. 

He mimff with his proper sphere, 
Sbe finds the baseness of her lot, 
Hilf jealous of she knows not what, 

Aid eofjing all that meet him there. 

IV little Tillage looks forlorn ; 
She lighs amid her narrow days, 
IfoTiag about the household ways, 

I> thit dark house where she was bom. 

The foolish neighbors eome and go, 
Asd tease her till the day draws by; 
At light she weeps, ' How yain am 1 1 

How ihonld he loye a thing so low ? ' 

LXI 

% m thy second state sublime, 
Thj ransom'd reason change replied 
With all the circle of the wise, 

At perfect flower of human time; 

Asd if thoo cast thine eyes below. 
How dimly charaoter*d and slight. 
How dwarTd a growth of cold and night, 

How blaiieh*d with darkness must I grow I 

Tct turn thee to the doubtful shore. 
Where thy first form was nuuie a man; 

1 lowed thee, Spirit, and loye, nor can 
The soal of Shakespeare loye thee more. 

LXII 

IW if aa eye that 's downward oast 
Couki main thee somewhat bbnob «w* fail, 






Then be my love an idle tale 
And fading legend of the past; 

And thou, as one that once declined, 
When he was little more than boy, 
On some unworthy heart with joy, 

But liyes to wed an equal mind. 

And breathes a noyel world, the while 
His other passion wholly dies, 
Or in the ught of deeper eyes 

Is matter for a flying smile. 

Lxin 

Tet pity for a horse o*er-driyen, 

And loye in which my hound has part. 
Can hang no weight upon my heart 

lu its assumptions up to heayen; 

And I am so much more than these, 
As thoo, perchance, art more than I, 
And yet I spare them sympathy. 

And 1 would set their pains at ease. 

So mayst thoo watch me where I weep^ 
As, unto yaster motions bound. 
The circuits of thine orbit round 

A higher height, a deeper deep. 

LXIV 

Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
As some diyinely gifted man. 
Whose life in low estate began 

And on a simple yillage green; 

Who breaks his birth's inyidious bar. 
And grasps the skirts of happy chanoe; 
And breasts the blows of circumstance, 

And grapples with his eyil star; 

Who makes by force his merit known 
And liyes to clutch the golden keys, 
To mould a mighty state's decrees. 

And shape the whisper of the throne; 

And moying up from high to higher. 
Becomes on r ortune's crowning slope 
The pillar of a people's hope, 

The centre of a world's desire; 

Yet feels, as in a pensiye dream. 
When all his actiye powers are still, 
A distant deamess in the hill, 

A senret sweetneet in the itreain« 



178 



IN MEMORIAM 



The limit of bis narrower fate. 
While yet beside its yooal springs 
He play'd at counsellors and kings, 

With one that was his earliest mate; 

Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
And reaps the labor of his hands, 
Or in the furrow rousing stands: 

' Does mj old friend remember me 7 ' 

LXV 

Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt; 

I lull a fancy trouble-tost 

With < Love 's too precious to be lost, 
A little grain shall not be spilt.' 

And in that solace can I sing, 
Till out of painful phases wrought 
There flutters up a happy thought. 

Self-balanced on a lightsome wing; 

Since we deserred the name of friends. 
And thine effect so liyes in me, 
A part of mine may live in thee 

And move thee on to noble ends. 

LXVI 

Ton thought my heart too far diseased; 
You wonder when my fancies play 
To find me gay among the gay. 

Like one with any trifle pleased. 

The shade by which my life was crost. 
Which makes a desert in the mind. 
Has made me kindly with my kind. 

And like to him whose sight is lost; 

Whose feet are guided thro* the land. 
Whose jest among his friends is free. 
Who takes the children on his knee, 

And winds their curls about his hand. 

He plays with threads, he beats his chair 
For pastime, dreaming of the sky; 
His inner day can never die. 

His night of loss is always there. 

Lxvn 

When on my bed the moonlight falls, 
I know that in thy place of rest 
By that broad water of the west 

There comes a glory on the walls: 

Thv marble bright in dark appears, 
Aa alowlv stMls a silver flame 



Along the letters of tbr name, 
And o'er the aumber of tnj years. 

The roystio glory swims awmj. 

From off my bed the moonlight dies; 
And closing eaves of wearied eyes 

I sleep till duak is dipt in gray; 

And then I know the mist is drawn 
A lucid veil from coast to coast, 
And in the dark church like a ghost 

Thy tablet glimmers in the dawn. 

Lxvm 

When in the down I sink my head. 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times 

oreath; 
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows 
Death, 
Nor can I dream of thee as dead. 

I walk as ere I walk'd forlorn. 
When all oar path was fresh with dei 
And all the bugle breezes blew 

Reveille to the breaking mom. 



But what is this ? I turn about, 
I find a trouble in thine eye. 
Which makes me sad I know not why 

Nor can my di'eam resolve the doubt; 

But ere the lark hath left the lea 
I wake, and I discern the truth; 
It is the trouble of my youth 

That foolish sleep transfers to thee. 

LX)X 

I dream'd there would be Spring no moi 
That Nature's ancient power was lost 
The streets were black with smoke s 
frost. 

They ch&tter'd trifles at the door; 

I wander'd from the noisy town, 
I found a wood with thorny boughs; 
I took the thorns to bind my brows, 

I wore them like a civic crown; 

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns 
From youth and babe and hoary hairs 
They call'd me in the public squares 

The fool that ¥rears a crown of thorns. 

Hiey eall'd me fool, they eall'd me ehik 
I fbond an angel of the 



IN MEMORIAM 



179 



Tlw ToiM was low, the look was bright; 
He look'd upon m j orown and smiled. 

fie reaefa'd the glory of a hand, 
Thit leem'd to touch it into leaf; 
Tlie Toiee was not the yoioe of grief, 

The wcfds were hard to understand. 

LXX 

I eanoot see the features ri^ht, 
When on the gloom I strive to paint 
The face I know; the hues are faint 

And mix with hollow masks of night; 

• 

Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought, 
A gulf that eyer shuts and gapes, 
A hand that pduts, and palTea shapes 

Ib ihidowy thoroughfares of thought; 

And crowds that stream from yawning 
doors, 

And ihoals of pucker'd faces drive; 

Tktk bulks that tumble half alive, 
And lazy lengths on boundless shores; 

^ all at once beyond the will 

I Itear a wizard music roll, 

And thro' a lattice on the soul 
Lwb thy fair face and makes it still. 

LXXI 

8bep^ kinsman thou to death and trance 
And madness, thou hast forged at last 
A night-long present of the past 

la wbieh we went thro' summer France. 

fisdat thoa such credit with the soul ? 
Then bring an opiate trebly strong, 
Dng down the blindfold sense of wrong, 

^^ to my pleasure may be whole; 

^ile BOW we talk as once we talk'd 
Of men and minds, the dust of change. 
The days that grow to something strange. 

In walking as of old we walk'd 

^•■^ the river's wooded reach, 

'^ fortress, and the mountain ridee, 
,^^ eataract flashing from the bri^;e. 
The breaker breaking on the beach. 

LXXII 

™^ thou thus, dim dawn, again, 
^ howlest, isining out of night. 



With blasts that blow the poplar white. 
And lash with storm the streaming pane ? 

Day, when my crown 'd estate begun 
To pine in that reverse of doom. 
Which sicken*d every living bloom. 

And blurr'd the splendor of the sun; 

Who usherest in the dolorous hour 

With thy quick tears that make the rose 
Pull sideways, and the daisy close 

Her crimson fringes to the shower; 

Who mightst have heaved a windless flame 
Up the deep East, or, whispering, play'd 
A chequer-work of beam and shade 

Along the hills, yet look'd the same. 

As wan, as chill, as wild as now; 
Day, mark'd as with some hideous crime. 
When the dark hand struck down thru' 
time. 

And oancell'd nature's best: but thou. 

Lift as thou mayst thy burthen'd brows 
Thro' clouds that drench the morning 

star. 
And whirl the ungamer'd sheaf afar, 

And sow the sky with flying boughs, 

And up thy vault with roaring sound 
Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day; 
Touch thy doll goal of joyless gray. 

And hide thy shame beneath the ground. 

LXXIII 

So many worlds, so much to do. 
So little done, such things to be. 
How know I what had need of thee. 

For thou wert strong as thou wert true ? 

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw. 
The head ninth miss'd an earthly wreath: 
I curse not Nature, no, nor Death; 

For nothing is that errs from law. 

We pass; the path that each man trod 
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds. 
What fame is left for human deeds 

In endless age ? It rests with Grod. 

O hollow wraith of dying fame. 
Fade wholly, while the soul exults. 
And self-infolds the large results 

Of force that would have forged a name- 



i8o 



IN MEMORIAM 



LXXIV 

As sometimes in a dead man's face, 
To those that watch it more and more, 
A likeness, hardly seen before, 

Comes out — to some one of his race; 

So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
I see thee what thoa art, and know 
Thy likeness to the wise below, 

Thy kindred with the great of old. 

Bat there is more than I can see, 
And what I see I leave unsaid, 
Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 

His darkness beautiful with thee. 

LXXV 

I leave thy praises unexpress'd 
In verse that brings mvself relief, 
And by the measure of my grief 

I leave thy greatness to be gaess'd. 

What practice howsoe'er expert 
In fitting aptest words to things, 
Or voice the richest-toned that sings. 

Hath power to give thee as thou wert ? 

I care not in these fading days 
To raise a cry that lasts not long, 
And round thee with the breeze of 

To stir a little dust of praise. 

Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, 

And, while we breathe beneath the sun, 
The world which credits what is done 

Is cold to all that might have been. 

So here shall silence guard thy fame; 
But somewhere, out of human view, 
Whate'er thy hands are set to do 

Is wrought with tumult of acclaim. 

LXXVI 

Take wings of fancy, and ascend. 
And in a moment set thy face 
Where all the starry heavens of space 

Are sharpened to a needle's end; 

Take wings of foresight; lighten thro* 
The secular abyss to come, 
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb 

Before the mouldering of a yew; 



And if the matin songs, that woke 
The darkness of our planet, last, 
Thine own shall wither in the vast. 

Ere half the lifetime of an oak. 

Ere these have clothed their bzimchy bo 
ers 

With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain; 

And what are they when these remain 
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers ? 

LXXVII 

What hope is here for modem rhyme 
To him who turns a musing eye 
On songs, and deeds, and lives, tl 
lie 

Foreshorten'd in the tract of time ? 

These mortal lullabies of pain 
May bind a book, may une a box, 
May serve to curl a maiden's locks; 

Or when a thousand moons shall wane 

A man upon a stall may find. 

And, passing, turn the page that tells 
A gnef, then changed to somethi 
else. 

Sung by a long-forgotten mind. 

But what of that ? My darken'd ways 
Shall ring with music all the same; 
To breathe my loss is more than fame 

To utter love more sweet than praise. 

LXXVIII 

Again at Christmas did we weave 
The holly round the Christmas heartl 
The silent snow possess'd the earth, 

And calmly fell our Christmas-eve. 

The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
No wing of wind the region swept. 
But over all things brooding slept 

The quiet sense of something lost. 

As in the winters left behind, 

Again our ancient games had place. 
The mimic pictured breathing grace. 

And dance and song and hoodmanrUi^ 

Who show'd a token of distress ? 
No single tear, no mark of pain — 
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane ? 

O grief, can grief be changed to lets ? 



IN MEMORIAM 



tSi 



bit regret, regret ean die I 

No— mizt with all this mystic framei 
Her deep xelatiooB are the same, 
But with long use her tears are dry. 

LXXIX 

'Mare than mj brothers are to me,' — 
Let this not rex thee, noble heart I 
I know tbee of what force thou art 

To bold the costliest love in fee. 

But thoa and I are one in kind, 
As molilded like in Nature's mint; 
And hill and wood and field did print 

The nme sweet forms in either mind. 

For OS the same cold streamlet curl'd 
Thxo' all his eddying coves, the same 
All winds that roam the twilight came 

In whispers of the beanteous world. 

At one dear knee we proif er'd vows, 
One lesson from one book we leam'd, 
£re ehildhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd 

To Uaok and brown on kindred brows. 

^ 80 my wealth resembles thine. 
But he was rich where I was poor, 
And he supplied my want the more 

Aihiinnlikeness fitted mine. 

LXXX 

IfuiyTsgue desire should rise, 
^Hat holy Death ere Arthur died 
Had moyed me kindly from his side, 

^ dropt the dust on tearless eyes; 

Then faoey shapes, as fancy can, 
^ {[rief my loss in him had wrought, 
A gnef as deep as life or thought, 

^t itay'd in peace with Grod and man. 

1 niake a picture in the brain; 

I hear we sentence that he speaks; 
He bears the burthen of the weeks, 
Bnt tons his burthen into gain. 

Kb credit thus shall set me free; 
^nd, influence-rich to soothe and save, 
Unosed example from the gprave 

Heaeb oat dead hands to comfort me. 

LXXXI 

Could I hsTe said while he was here, 
* Hy love shall now no further range; 



There cannot come a mellower change, 
For now is love mature in ear ' ? 

LoYC, then, had hope of richer store: 
What end is here to my complaint ? 
This haunting whisper makes me faint, 

*More years had made me love thee 
more.' 

But Death returns an answer sweet: 
* My sudden frost was sudden gain, 
And gave all ripeness to the grain 

It might have drawn from after-heat.' 

Lxxxn 

I wage not any feud with Death 

For changes wrought on form and face; 
No lower life that earth's embrace 

May breed with him can fright my faith. 

Eternal process moving on, 

From state to state uie spirit walks; 

And these are but the shatter'd stalks, 
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one. 

Nor blame I Death, because he bare 
The use of virtue out of earth; 
I know transplanted human worth 

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere. 

For this alone on Death I wreak 
The wrath that garners in my heart: 
He put our lives so far apart 

We cannot hear each other speak. 

LXXXIII 

Dip down upon the northern shore, 
O sweet new-year delaving long; 
Thou doest expectant it^ature wrong; 

Delaying long, delay no more. 

What stays thee from the clouded noons, 
Thy sweetness from its proper place ? 
Can trouble live with April days. 

Or sadness in the summer moons ? 

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, 
The little speedwell's darling blue, 
Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 

Laburnums, dropping^wells of fire. 

O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
That longs to burst a frozen bud 

And flood a fresher throat with son^. 



iSa 



IN MEMORIAM 



LXXXIV 

When I oontemplate all alone 
The life that had been thine below. 
And fix my thoughts on all the glow 

To which thy orescent would have grown, 

I see thee sitting crown'd with good, 
A central warmth diffusing bliss 
In glance and smile, and (uasp and kiss, 

On all the branches of thy blooa; 

Thy blood, my friend, and partly mine; 
For now the day was drawing on. 
When thon shonldst link thy life with 
one 

Of mine own house, and boys of thine 

Had babbled 'Uncle * on my knee; 
But that remorseless iron hour 
Made cypress of her orange flower. 

Despair of hope, and earth of thee. 

I seem to meet their least desire, 

To clap their cheeks, to call them mine. 
I see their unborn faces shine 

Beside the never-lighted fire. 

I see myself an honor'd guest, 
Thy partner in the flowery walk 
Of letters, genial table-talk. 

Or deep dispute, and graceful jest; 

While now thy prosperous labor fills 
The lips of men with honest praise. 
And sun by sun the happy days 

Descend below the golden hills 

With promise of a mom as fair; 

And all the train of bounteous hours 
Conduct, by paths of growing powers. 

To reverence and the silver hair; 

Till slowly worn her earthly robe, 
Her lavish mission richly wrought. 
Leaving great leg^ies of thought, 

Thy spirit should fail from off the globe; 

What time mine own might also flee, 
As Iink*d with thine in love and fate. 
And, hovering o'er the dolorous strait 

To the other shore, involved in thee, 

Arrive at last the blessed goal. 
And He that died in Holy Land 



Wonld reach us out the 
And take us as a sin^ sooL 



haad, 



What reed was that on whieh I leant ? 
Ah, backward fancy, wherefore wake 
The old bitterness again, and break 

The low beginnings of eontent ? 

LXXXV 

This truth eame borne with bier and pa] 
I felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
'T is better to have loved and lost. 

Than never to have loved at all — 

O true in word, and tried in deed. 
Demanding, so to bring relief 
To this which is our common giie^ 

What kind of life is that I lead; 

And whether trust in things above 
Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustain'd; 
And whether love for him haye dxais 

My capabilities of love; 

Tour words have virtue sneh as draws 
A faithful answer from the breast. 
Thro' li^t reproaches, half expntt. 

And loyal nnto kindly laws. 

My blood an even tenor kept. 
Till on mine ear this message falb, 
That in Vienna's fatal walls 

God's finger touch'd him, and he slept^ 

The great Intelligences fair 

That range above our mortal state^ 
In circle round the blessed gate. 

Received and gave him welcome there; 

And led him thro' the blissful dimes. 
And 8how*d him in the fountain fresh 
All knowledge that the sons of flesh 

ShaU gather in the cycled times. 

But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
Whose life, whose thoughts were lit 

worth. 
To wander on a darken'd earth. 
Where all things round me breathed 
him.' 

O friendship, equal-poised control, 
O heart, with kindliest motion 
O sacred essence, other form, 

lolemn ghost, O crowned soul 1 



IN MEMORIAM 



183 






T«t BMs eocild better know than I, 
Hov meh of set at human hands 
Ibe aense of human will demands 
we dare to live or die. 



Whttefer way my days decline, 
I felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
Ha being working in mine own, 

Tbe lootitepe of his life in mine; 

A fife that all the Muses deck'd 
With gifts of grace, that might express 
AU^omprehensive tenderness, 

ilUobtUising intellect: 

And 10 niT passion hath not swenred 
To works of weakness, but I find 
An image comforting the mind, 

Aid b my grief a strength reserved. 



the imaginative woe, 
Ibat loved to lumdle spiritual strife, 
B^Dfoied the shock thro' all my life, 
te m the present broke the blow. 

lljpahes therefore beat again 
For other friends that once I met; 
Nor can it suit me to forget 

Ibe migh^ hopes that make us men. 

I ^vo your love: I count it crime 
To moom for any overmuch; 
I. tiie dirided half of such 

A friendibip as had master'd Hme; 



"uoi masters Time indeed, and is 
Sternal, separate from fears. 
The aOHMsnming months and years 
Gu take no part away from this; 

Alt Sammer on the steaming floods, 
And Spring that swells the narrow 

brooks, 
And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 

IW gather in the waning woods. 

And ererj pulse of wind and wave 
Kccalli, in change of light or gloom, 
Hy old affection of the tomb, 

Aad my prime passion in the grave. 

My dd affection of the tomb, 
A part of stillness, yearns to speak: 
' Atiae, and get thee forth and seek 

A hiesdahiD for the vears to come. 



' I watch thee from the quiet shore; 

Thy spirit up to mine can reach; 

But in dear words of human speech 
We two conmiuuicate no more.' 

And I, * Can clouds of nature stain 
The starry clearness of the free ? 
How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 

Some painless sympathy with pain ? ' 

And lightly does the whisper fall: 
* 'T 18 hard for thee to fathom this; 
I triumph in conclusive bliss. 

And that serene result of all.' 

So hold I commerce with the dead; 

Or so methinks the dead would say; 

Or so shall g^ef with symbols play 
And pining life be fancy-fed. 

Now looking to some settied end. 
That these things pass, and I shall prove 
A meeting somewhere, love with love, 

I crave your pardon, O my friend; 

If not so fresh, with love as true, 
I, clasping brotber^hands, aver 
I could not, if I would, transfer 

The whole I felt for him to you. 

For which be thev that hold apart 
The promise of the golden hours ? 
First love, first friendship, equal powers. 

That marry with the virgin heart. 

Still mine, that cannot but deplore. 
That beats within a lonely place. 
That yet remembers his embrace. 

But at his footstep leaps no more. 

My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
Quite in the love of what is gone. 
But seeks to beat in time with one 

That warms another living breast. 

Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring. 
Knowing the primrose yet is dear. 
The primrose of the later year. 

As not unlike to that of Spring. 

LXXXVI 

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air. 
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
Of evening over brake and bloom 

And meadow, slowly breathing bare 



x84 



IN MEMORIAM 



The round of space, and rapt beloir 
Thro' all the dewy tassell'd wood, 
And shadowing down the homed flood 

In ripples, fan my hrows and blow 

The fever from my cheek, and sigh 

The fall new life that feeds thy breath 
Throughout my frame, till Donbt and 

Death, 
111 brethren, let the fancy fly 

From belt to belt of crimson seas 
Ob leagues of odor streaming far. 
To where in youder orient star 

A hundred spirits whisper ' Peace.' 

Lxxxvn 

I TOst beside the reverend walls 
In which of old I wore the gown; 
I roved at random thro' the town. 

And saw the tumult of the halls; 

And heard once more in college fanes 
The storm their high-built organs make. 
And thunder-music, rolling, shake 

The prophet blazon'd on the panes; 

And caught once more the distant shout, 
The measured pulse of racing oars 
Among the willows; paced the shores 

And many a bridge, and all about 

The same gray flats again, and felt 
The same, but not the same; and last 
Up that long walk of limes I past 

To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 

Another name was on the door. 
I lingered; all within was noise 
Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys 

That crash'd the glass and beat the floor; 

Where once we held debate, a band 
Of youthful friends, on mind and art. 
And labor, and the changing mart, 

And all the framework of the land; 

When one would aim an arrow fair, 
But send it slackly from the string; 
And one would pierce an outer ring, 

And one an inner, here and there; 

And last the master-bowman, he. 
Would cleave the mark. A wiUing ear 



We lent him. Who but hong to 1m 
The rapt oration flowing free 

From point to pmnt, with power and | 
And music in the bounds of law. 
To those conclusions when we saw 

The God within him light his face. 

And seem to lift the form, and glow 
In azure orbits heavenly-wise; 
And over those ethereal eyes 

The bar of Michael Angelo ? 

Lxxxvin 

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid swed 
Rings Eden thro* the budded quick 
O, tell me where the senses mix, 

O, tell me where the passions meet, 

Whence radiate: fierce extremes emp] 
Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
And in the midmost heart of grief 

Thy passion clasps a secret joy; 

And I — my harp would prelude woe 
I cannot all conmiand the strings; 
The glory of the sum of things 

Will flash along the chords and go. 

LXXXIX 

Witch-elms that counterchange the fio 
Of this flat lawn with dusk and brij 
And thou, with all thy breadth 
height 

Of foliage, towering sycamore; 

How often, hither wandering down. 
My Arthur found your shadows fail 
And shook to all the liberal air 

The dust and din and steam of town I 

He brought an eye for all he saw; 

He mixt in all our simple sports; 

They pleased him, fresh from brai 
courts 
And dusty purlieus of the law. 

O joy to him in this retreat, 
Immantled in ambrosial dark. 
To drink the cooler air, and mark 

The landscape winking thro' the heat I 

O sound to rout the brood of cares. 
The sweep of scythe in morning dei 



IN MEMORIAM 



tSS 



Hie gust that roond the garden flew, 
And tomUed half the mellowing pean 1 

I UiM, iriien all in cirole drawn 
[ About him, heart and ear were fed 
To hear him, as he lay and read 
The Tnsetti poets on the lawnl 

Or in the all-golden afternoon 
A gneit, or happj sister, sung, 
Or here she brought the harp and flung 

i biUid to the brightening moon. 

Nor Im it pleased in liTelier moods. 
Beyond the bounding hill to stray. 
And break the livelong summer day 

With btnqnet in the distant woods; 

Wherettwe elanced from theme to theme, 
Diiciiai'd the books to love or hate. 
Or iooeh'd the changes of the state, 

«r thieided some Socratic dream; 

Bat if I praised the busy town. 
He Wed to rail against it still. 
For 'ground in yonder social mill 

We mb etch other's angles down, 

'Aod merge,' he said, * in form and gloss 
The pietoresque of man and man. 
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran, 

The wine-flisk lying conoh'd in moss, 

^Mol'd within the glooming ware; 
And last, returning from afar, 
Befon the crimson-circled star 

Bad MsQ into her father's g^ve, 

•And bnishmg ankle-deep in flowers. 
We heard behind the woodbine veil 
T1>e milk that bubbled in the pail. 

And buxmgs of the honeyed hours. 

xc 

He tasted love with half his mind, 
Xor ever drank the inviolate spring 
Wlieie nighest heaven, who first conld 
fling 

Ilus hitter seed among mankind: 

Hut oonld the dead, whose dying eyes 
Were closed with wail, resume their life, 
They would bnt find in child and wife 

All iron weloome when they rise. 



T was well, indeed, when warm with wine, 
To pledge them with a kindly tear, 
To talk them o'er, to wish them here. 

To count their memories half divine; 

But if they came who past away. 
Behold their brides in other hands; 
The hard heir strides about their lands. 

And will not yield them for a day. 

Tea, tho' their sons were none of these. 
Not less the yet-loved sire would make 
Confusion worse than death, and shake 

The pillars of domestic peace. 

Ah, dear, but come thou back to me I 
Whatever change the years have wrought^ 
I find not yet one lonely thought 

That cries against my wish for thee. 

xci 

When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, 
And rarely pipes the mounted thrush* 
Or underneath the barren bush 

Flits by the sea-blue bird of March; 

Come, wear the form by which I know 
Thy spirit in time among thy peers; 
The hope of unacconiplish'd years 

Be large and lucid round thy brow. 

When summer's hourly-mellowing change 
May breathe, with many roses sweet. 
Upon the thousand waves of wheat 

That ripple round the lowly grange. 

Come; not in watches of the nieht. 

But where the sunbeam broodeth warm. 
Come, beauteous in thine after form* 

And like a finer light in light. 

XCII 

If any vision should reveal 
Thy likeness, I might count it vain 
As but the canker of the brain; 

Tea, tho' it spake and made appeal 

To chances where our lots were oast 
Together in the days behind, 
I might but say, I hear a wind 

Of memory murmuring the past. 

Tea, tho' it spake and bared to view 
A ^t within the coming year; 



i86 



IN MEMORIAM 



And tho' the months, revolving near, 
Should prove the phantom-warning true. 

They mirht not seem thy prophecies, 

But spiritnal presentiments, 

And snch refraction of events 
As often rises ere the j rise. 

XCIII 

I shall not see thee. Dare I say 
No spirit ever brake the band 
That stays him from the native land 

Where first he walk'd when claspt in clay ? 

Ko visual shade of some one lost, 
fiut he, the Spirit himself, may come 
Where all the nerve of sense is numb. 

Spirit to Spirit, Ghost to Ghost. 

O, therefore from thy sightless range 
With gods in nnconjectured bliss, 
O, from the distance of the abyss 

Of tenfold-complicated change. 

Descend, and touch, and enter; hear 
The wish too strong for words to name. 
That in this blindness of the frame 

My Ghost may feel that thine is near. 

XCIV 

How pure at heart and sound in head. 
With what divine affections bold 
Should be the man whose thought would 
hold 

An hour's communion with the dead. 

In vain shalt thou, or any, call 
The spirits from their golden day. 
Except, like them, thou too canst say, 

My spirit is at peace with all. 

They haunt the silence of the breast. 
Imaginations calm and fair. 
The memory like a cloudless air, 

The conscience as a sea at rest; 

But when the heart is full of din. 
And doubt beside the portal waits, 
They can but listen at the gates, 

And hear the household jar within. 

xcv 

By night we linger'd on the lawn, 
For underfoot the herb was dry; 



And genial warmth; and o'er the sky 
The silvery hace of summer drawn; 

And calm that let the tapers bom 
Unwavering: not a cricket chirr'd; 
The brook alone faiHiff was heard^ 

And on the board the fluttering am. 

And bats went round in fragrant skiea. 
And wheel'd or lit the filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine e^wt 

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes; 

While now we sane old songs that peai'd 
From knoll to knoll, wMre, coudi'd al 



The white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 
Laid their dark arms about the field. 

But when those others, one by one. 

Withdrew themselves from me and night, 
And in the house light after light 

Went out, and I was all alone. 



A hunger seised my heart; I read 

Of uiat glad year which once had been. 
In those fidlen leaves which kept thdi 
green. 

The noble letters of the dead. 

And strangely on the silence broke 

The silent-speaking words, and strange 
Was love's anmb cry defying change 

To test his worth; and strangely spoke 

The faith, the vigor, bold to dwell 
On doubts that drive the coward back. 
And keen thro' wordy snares to track 

Suggestion to her inmost celL 

So word by word, and line by line. 
The dead roan touch'd me from the 

past. 
And all at once it seem'd at last 

The living soul was flash'd on mine. 

And mine in this was wound, and whirl'd 
About empyreal heights of thought. 
And came on that which is, and caught 

The deep pulsations of the world, 

.£onian music measuring out 
The steps of Time — the shocks oi 
Chance^' 



IN MEMORIAM 



187 



Ibe blows of Death. At length my 
tntnoe 
Was eanoell'd, ttricken thro' with doubt. 

Vtfoe wordB I bnt ah, how hard to frame 
uk matter-itioulded forms of speech, 
Or even for intellect to reach 

Thro' memory that which I became; 

Till now tiie donbtfnl dnsk reveal'd 
TIm koolls once more where, couched at 

ease, 
llw white kine glimmer'd, and the trees 

Laid their dark arms about the field; 

And toek'd from oat the distant gloom 
A breeie began to tremble o*er 
The large leaves of the sycamore, 

And flttctoate all the still perfume, 

And gathering freshlier overhead, 
Koek'dthe rull-foliaged elms, and swung 
The heayy-folded rose, and flung 

The liHea to and fro, and said, 

'The dawn, the dawn,' and died away; 
And Esst and West, without a breath, 
Mixt their dim lights, like life and 
death, 

To hroiden into boundless day. 

xcvi 

loQ lay, but with no touch of scorn, 
Sweet4iearted, you, whose light-blue eyes 
Are tender over drowning flies, 

loo tell me, doubt is Devil-bom. 

I know not: one indeed I knew 
In many a subtle question versed. 
Who tooch'd a jarring lyre at first, 

Bot ever strove to make it true; 

Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, 

At last he beat his music out. 

There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
Beliere me, than iu half the creeds. 

He fongfathis doubts and gather'd strength, 
Be woald not make his judgment blind, 
fle hieed the spectres of the mind 

And laid them; thus he came at length 

^'i' find a stronger faith his own, 
And Power was with him in the night, 



Which makes the darkness and the 
light. 
And dweUa not in the light alone. 

But in the darkness and the cloud. 
As over Sinalf's peaks of old, 
While Israel made their gods of gold, 

Altho' the trumpet blew so loud. 

XCVII 

My love has talk'd with rocks and trees; 
He finds on misty mountain-ground 
His own vast shadow glory-crown'd; 

He sees himself in all he sees. 

Two partners of a married life — 
I look'd on these and thought of thee 
In vastness and in mystery. 

And of my spirit as of a wife. 

These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
Their hearts of old have beat in tune. 
Their meetings made December June, 

Their every parting was to die. 

Their love has never past away; 
The days she never can forget 
Are earnest that be loves her yet, 

Whate'er the faithless people say. 

Her life is lone, he sits apart; 

He loves her yet, she will not weep, 
Tho' rapt in matters dark and deep 

He seems to slight her simple heart. 

He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 
He reads the secret of the star. 
He seems so near and yet so far, 

He looks so cold: she thinks him kind. 

She keeps the gift of years before, 

A withered violet is her bliss; 

She knows not what his greatness is, 
For that, for all, she loves him more. 

For him she plays, to him she sings 
Of early faith and plighted vows; 
She knows but matters of the house. 

And he, he knows a thousand things. 

Her faith is fixt and cannot move. 
She darkly feels him great and wise. 
She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 

* I cannot understand; I love.' 



\ 



i88 



IN MEMORIAM 



xcvin 

Too leare us: yoa will see the Rhine, 
And those fair hills I sail'd below, 
When I was there with him; and go 

By summer belts of wheat and vine 

To where he breathed his latest breath. 
That city. All her splendor seems 
No livelier than the wisp that gleams 

On Lethe in the eyes of Disath. 



Let her great Danube rolling bar 
Enwind her isles, nnmarW of r 
I have not seen, I will not see 

Vienna; rather dream that there. 



A treble darkness. Evil haunts 

The birth, the bridal; friend from friend 
Is oftener parted, fathers bend 

Above more graves, a thousand wants 

Gnarr at the heels of men, and prej 
Bv each cold hearth, and sadness flings 
Her shadow on the blaze of kings. 

And yet myself have heard him say, 

That not in any mother town 

With statelier progress to and fro 
The double tides of chariots flow 

By park and suburb under brown 

Of lustier leaves; nor more content, 
He told me, lives in any crowd. 
When all is eay with lamps, and loud 

With sport and song, in booth and tent, 

Imperial halls, or open plain; 

And wheels the circled dance, and breaks 

The rocket molten into flakes 
Of crimson or in emerald rain. 

XCIX 

Bisest thou thus, dim dawn, again. 
So loud with voices of the birds, 
So thick with lowings of the herds. 

Day, when I lost the flower of men; 

Who tremblest thro' thy darkline red 
On yon swollen brook that buboles fast 
By meadows breathing of the past. 

And woodlands holy to the dead; 

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves 
A song that slights the coming oaie, 



And Autumn laying here and thesa 
A fiery finger on the leaves; 

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath 
To myriads on the genial earth. 
Memories of bridal, or of birth. 

And unto myriads more, of death. 

O, wheresoever those may be. 
Betwixt the slumber of the poles. 
To-day they count as kindred sools; 

They know me not, but mourn with 



I climb the hill: from end to end 
Of all the landscape nndemeath, 
I find no place that does not breathe 

Some gracious memory of my friend; 

No g^y old grange, or lonely fold. 
Or low morass and whispering reed. 
Or simple stile from m«ui to mead. 

Or sheep walk up the windy wold; 

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 
That hears the latest linnet trill. 
Nor quarry trench'd alone the luU 

And haunted by the wrangbng daw; 

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; 
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves 
To left and right thro' meadowy curves, 

That feed the mothers of the flock; 

But each has pleased a kindred eye. 
And each reflects a kindlier day; 
And, leaving these, to pass away, 

I think once more he seems to die. 

CI 

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, 
The tender blossom flutter down. 
Unloved, that beech will gather brown, 

This maple bum itself away; 

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, 
Ray round with flames her disk of 

And many a rose-camation feed 
With summer spice the hunmiing air; 

Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 

The brook shall babble down the plain. 
At noon or when the Lesser Wain 

Is twisting round the polar star; 



IM MEMORIAM 



1S9 



Cietred for, gird the windy groTe, 
Aid flood toe hannts of hem and oimke, 
Or into tilver arrows break 

TW Miliiig moon in ereek and ooTe; 

Tin fnm the garden and the wild 

A btth aMoeiation blow, 

Aad jetr by year the landscape grow 
Familiir to the stranger's child; 

Ai mr by year the laborer tills 
Hit wooted glebe, or lops the glades, 
And Tear by year our memory fades 

fVon til the circle of the hills. 

CII 

Wt letTe the well-beloved place 
Wbere first we gazed apon the sky; 
TW roofs that heard our earliest cry 

^ skelter one of stranger race. 

^e f<S bat ere we go from home, 
Ai down the gardeu-walks I move, 
Tvo spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

Ofte vhispers, * Here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird 

Is native haiels tassel-hnng.' 

The other answers, * Tea, bat here 
Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
With thy lost friend among the bowers, 

And this hath made them trebly dear.' 

lliese two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

ThU will not yield each other way. 

I tnm to go; my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pare image of regret. 



cm 



.1 



On that last night before we went 
From out the doors where I was bred, 
I dream'd a vision of the dead, 
left my after-mom content. 



Metbooght I dwelt within a hall, 
Aad maidens with me; distant hills 



From hidden summits fed with rills 
A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
They sang of what is wise and good 
And graceful. In the centre stood 

A statue veil'd, to which they sang; 

And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me. 
The shape of him I loved, and love 
For ever. Then flew in a dove 

And brought a summons from the sea; 

And when they learnt that I must go, 
They wept and wail'd, but led the way 
To whore a little shallop lay 

At anchor in the flood below; 

And on bv manv a level mead, 

And snadowmg bluff that made the 
banks. 

We glided winding under ranks 
Of iris and the goldeu reed; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 

And roll'd the fl(x>ds in grander space. 
The maidens gathered strength and grace 

And presence, lordlier than before; 

And I myself, who sat apart 

And watch'd them, waz'd in every limb; 

I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan's heart; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
And one would chant the history 
Of that great race which is to be. 

And one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
Began to foam, and we to draw 
From deep to deep, to where we saw 

A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck. 
But thrice as large as man he bent 
'1 o g^reet us. Up the side I went. 

And fell in silence on his neck; 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
Bewail'd their lot; 1 did them wrong: 
*We served thee here,' they said, 'ao 

And wilt Ummi leave us now behind ? * 



igo 



IN MEMORIAM 



So rapt I was, they could not win 
An answer from my lips, but ha 
Replying, * Enter likewise ye 

And go with as: ' they enter*d in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
A music out of sheet and shroud, 
We steer'd her toward a crimson olood 

That landlike slept along the deep. 

cnr 

The time draws near the birth of Christ; 

The moon is hid, the night is still; 

A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 

A single peal of bells below. 
That wakens at this hour of rest 
A single murmur in the breast. 

That th^ are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers' voices here they sound. 
In lands where not a memory strays, 
Nor landmark breathes of odier days. 

But all is new unhallow'd g^ond. 

cv 

To-night ungather'd let us leave 
This laurel, let this holly stand: 
We live within the stranger's land. 

And strangely falls our Christmaa-eTe. 

Our father's dust is left alone 
And silent under other snows: 
There in due time the woodbine blows. 

The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
The genial hour with mask and mime; 
For change of place, like growth of time. 

Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast. 

By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
A little spare the night I loved. 

And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor. 
Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm ; 
For who would keep an ancient form 

Thro' which the spirit breathes no more ? 

Be neither song, nor eame, nor feast; 
Nor harp be touchM, nor flute be blown; 



No danoe, no motion, save aloiM 
What lightens in the locid East 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 

Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 

Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 

CVI 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
The year is dying in the mght; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Rine out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the ftdse, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and pooc^ 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying eanse. 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhyme 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The ciric slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right. 

Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

CVII 

It is the day when he was bom, 

A bitter day that early sank 

Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. 



IN MEMORIAM 



191 



TktiBM admits not flowen or leaves 
To dtek tbe buiqoei. Fiercely flies 
TW bbil of North and East, and ice 

MikM dtg^n at the sharpen'd eaves. 

Aid bnitlflt all the hrmkea and thorns 
To yoo hard crescent, as she hanes 
Abofi the wood which grides and clangs 

Iti ksflMS riha and iron horns 

ToRtber, in the drifts that pass 
10 darken on the rolling brine 
Tbt bfeaks the ooast. fiat fetch the 



imuige the hoard and brim the glass; 

Biiif IB neat lo^ and let them lie, 

To aaEe a solid core of heat; 

Be ebeerfnl-minded, talk and treat 
Of ill IkiagB even as ha were by; 

We keep tbe day. With festal cheer. 
With books and mnsie, snrely we 
WiU drink to him, whate'er be be, 

Aid dug the songs be loved to hear. 

CVIII 

I vfll Dot sbnt me from my kind, 

And, lest I stiffen into stone, 

I will not eat my heart alone, 
Kor feed with sighs a passing wind: 

What profit lies in barren faith. 
And Tseant yearning, tbo' with might 
To seals the heaven s highest height. 

Or dive below the wells of death ? 

What find I in the highest place. 
Eat mine own phantom chanting hymns ? 
And on the depths of death there swims 

Thft reflex of a human face. 

1 11 rather take what fruit may be 
Of sorrow under human skies: 
T is held that sorrow makes us wise. 

Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

Cix 

Hsart-affloenoe in discursive talk 
From household fountains never dry; 
Tbe eritie eleamess of an eye 

That saw thro' all the Muses' walk; 

Ssffnpbie intellect and force 
To Saba and throw the doubts of man; 



Impassion'd logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
fiut touch'd with no ascetic gloom; 
And passion pure in snowy bloom 

Thro' all the years of April blood; 

A love of freedom rarely felt. 
Of freedom in her regal seat 
Of England; not the schoolboy beat» 

The blind hysterics of the Celt; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
In such a sort, the child would twine 
A trustful hand, nnask'd, in tbinOy 

And find his comfort in thy face; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
Have look'd on: if they look'd in vain. 
My shame is greater who remain, 

Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

ex 

Thy converse drew us with deligbty 
The men of rathe and riper vears; 
The feeble soul, a haunt of /ears. 

Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 

On tbee tbe loyal-hearted hunr. 
The proud was half disarm'a of pride, 
Nor cared the serpent at thy side 

To flicker with his aouble tongue. 

The stem were mild when thon vrert by. 
The flippant put himself to school 
And hf^ard thee, and the brazen fool 

Was softened, and he knew not why; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart. 
And felt thy triumph was as mine; 
And loved them more, that they wan 
thine, 

The graceful tact, the Christian art; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill. 
But mine the love that will not tire. 
And, bom of love, the vague desirs 

That spars an imitative wilL 

CXI 

The churl in spirit, up or down 
Alon^ the scale of ranks, thro' all, 
To him who grasps a golden ball, 

fiy blood a king, at heart a clown,^- 



igs 



IN MEMORIAM 



The churl in spirit, bowe'er he veil 
His want in forms for fashion's sake. 
Will let his coltish nature break 

At seasons thro' the gilded pale; 

For who can always act ? bat he, 
To whom a thousand memories call. 
Not being less but more than all 

The gentleness he seem*d to be. 

Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
Each office of the social hour 
To noble manners, as the flower 

And native growth of noble mind; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
Or Tillain fancy fleeting by. 
Drew in the expression of an eye 

Where God and Nature met in light; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
The grand old name of gentleman. 
Defamed by every char&tan. 

And soil'd with all ignoble use. 

CXII 

High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
On glorious insufficiencies, 

Set ligut by narrower perfectness. 

But thou, that fillest all the room 
Of all my love, art reason why 
I seem to cast a careless eye 

On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou ? some novel power 
Sprang up for ever at a touch. 
And hope could never hope too much. 

In watching thee from hour to hour. 

Large elements in order brought. 

And tracts of calm from tempest made. 
And world-wide fluctuation sway'd 

In vassal tides that followed thought. 

CXIII 

"T is held that sorrow makes us wise; 
Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
Which not alone had guided me, 

But served the seasons that may rise; 

For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
In intellect, with force and skill 



To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 
I doubt not what thou wouldst baye been 

A life in eivio action warm, 
A soul on highest mission sent, 
A potent voice of Parliament, 

A pillar steadfast in the storm. 

Should licensed boldness gather fore6|» 
Becoming, when the time has birth, 
A lever to uplift the earth 

And roll it in another course. 

With thousand shocks that come and go. 
With agonies, with energies. 
With overthrowings, and with cries. 

And undulations to and fro. 

cxiv 

Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shs 
rail 
Against her beauty ? May she mix 
With men and prosper ! Who shall fla 

Her pillars ? Let her work prevaiL 

But on her forehead sits a fire; 
She sets her forward countenance 
And leaps into the future chance. 

Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
She cannot fight the fear of death. 
What is she, cut from love and faith. 

But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of demons ? fiery-hot to burst 
All barriers in her onward race 
For power. Let her know her plaoe; 

She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild. 
If all be not in vain, and g^nide 
Her footsteps, moving side by side 

With Wisdom, like the younger child; 

For she is earthly of the mind, 
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
O friend, who earnest to thy goal 

So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee. 
Who grewest not alone in power 
And knowledge, but by year and hour 

In reverence and in charity. 



IN MEMORIAM 



193 



cxv 

How fidM Um last long itreak of boow, 
Now buigeoDS eveiy maie of quick 
Abottt Um flowering aqnmresy and thick 

Bf mIm roots the Tiolets Uow. 

Hov rii^ the woodland load and long, 
Ibe difttaee takes a lorelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 

IW Iirk beeomes a sightless song. 

Kow diaee the lights on lawn and lea, 
Thit flocks are whiter down the vale, 
Aad milkier every milky sail 

Oi winding stream or distant sea; 

Wkere now the seamew pipes, or dives 
is joader greening gleam, and ily 
IW ksppy birds, that change their sky 

To baiU and brood, that live their lives 

Fran bad to land; and in my breast 
Spring wakens too, and my regret 
Beeomes an April violet, 

And bads and blossoms like the rest. 

cxvi 

Ii H, then, nftet for boned time 
Tkst keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
Aad meets the year, and gives and 
takes 

IW colors of the crescent prime ? 

Xot all: the songs, the stirring air, 
Tlie life re-orient out of dust, 
Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust 

la that which made the world so fair. 

Hot an regret: the face will shine 

Upon me, while I muse alone, 

And that dear voice, I once have known, 
8tin speak to me of me and mine. 

Tet leas of sorrow lives in me 
For days of hanpy commune dead. 
Less yearning for the friendship fled 

Tkaa some strong bond which is to be. 

cxvu 

O days and boors, your work is this. 
To bold me from rov proper place, 
A little while from his embraeOi 

Far faUar gain of after bliss; 



That out of distance might ensue 
Desire of nearness doubly sweet, 
And unto meeting, when we meet. 

Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs. 
And every span of shade that stealiy 
And every loss of toothed wheels, 

And all the courses of the suns. 

cxvin 

Contemplate all this work of Time, 
The ffiant laboring in his youth; 
Nor dream of human love and truth. 

As dying Nature's earth and lime; 

But trust that those we call the dead 
Are breathers of an ampler day 
For ever nobler ends. They say. 

The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 

And grew to seeming-random formSy 
The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 

Till at the last arose the man; 

Who throve and branched from dime to 
clime. 
The herald of a higher race. 
And of himself in higher place, 

If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more; 
Or, crown 'd with attributes of woe 
Like glories, move his course, and show 

That life is not as idle ore. 

But iron dug from central gloom. 
And heated hot with burning fean^ 
And dipt in baths of hissing tears. 

And batter'd with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
Move upward, working out the beast. 

And let the ape and tiger die. 

CXIX 

Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
So quickly, not as one that weeps 
I come once more; the city sleeps; 

I smell the meadow in the street; 



I bear a chirp of birds; I see 
Betwixt the blaek f roots loiif>wiUidra 



194 



IN MEMORIAM 



A ligbt-blae lane of early dawn. 
And thmk of early days and iheoi 

And bless tbee, for thy lips are bland, 
And bright the friendship of thine eye; 
And in my thoughts with scarce a sijg^ 

I take the pressure of thine hand. 

cxx 

I trust I haye not wasted breath: 
I think we are not wholly brain, 
Mapietio mockeries; not in vain, 

Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 

Not only conning casts in clay: 
Let Science prove we are, and then 
What matters Science unto men, 

At least to me ? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
Hereaifter, up from childhood shape 
His action like the greater ape, 

But I was bom to other things. 

cxxi 

Sad Hesper o'er the buried son 
And ready, thou, to die with him, 
Thon watchest idl things ever dim 

And dimmer, and a glory done. 

Ihe team is looeen'd from the wain. 
The boat is drawn upon the shore; 
Thou listenest to the closing door, 

And life is darkened in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night. 
By thee the world's great work is heard 
Beg^ning, and the wakeful bird ; 

Behind thee comes the greater light 

The market boat is on the stream. 
And voices hail it from the brink; 
Thou hear'st the village hammer clink. 

And see'st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
For what is one, the first, the last, 
Thon, like my present and my past. 

Thy place is changed; thou art the same. 

cxxn 

O, wast thou with me, dearest, then. 
While I rose up against my doom. 
And yeam'd to burst the folded gloom, 

Tp Jt#fe tbp f temal heavens again, 



I 



To feel once more, in placid awe. 
The strong imagination roll 
A sphere of stars about my aool, 

Li all her motion one with law ? 

If thon wert with me, and the grave 
Divide us not, be with me now. 
And enter in at breast and brow. 

Till all my blood, a fuller wa^e. 

Be quicken'd with a livelier breath. 
And like an inconsiderate boy. 
As in the former flash of joy, 

I slip the thoughts of life and death; 

And all the breeze of Fancy Mows, 
And every dewdrop paints a bow, 
The wizard lightnings deeply glow. 

And every thought brides out a rose. 

CXXIII 

There rolls the deep where grew the 
O earth, what changes hast thou seen 
There where the long street roars 
been 

The stillness of the central sea. 



The hills are shadows,' and thev flow 
From form to form, and nothing stands; 
They melt like mist, the solid lands. 

Like clouds they shape themselves and ga 

But in my spirit will I dwell. 

And dream my dream, and hold it trae; 

For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewelL 

cxxiv 

That which we dare invoke to bless; 

Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; 

He, They, One, All; within, without; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess, — 

I found Him not in world or sun. 
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye. 
Nor thro' the questions men may try,- 

The petty cobwebs we have spun. 

If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 
I heard a voice, * believe no more,* 
And heard an ever-breaking shore 

That tumbled in the Grodless deep, 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
The freezing reason's colder part. 



IN MEMORIAM 



»9S 



And like a nuu in wrath the heart 
Stood np and aniwer'd, * I have felt' 

No, like a ehild in donbt and fear: 
Btit that Uind clamor made me wise; 
Theo was I as a child that cries, 

Bat, erying, knows his father near; 

Aad what I am beheld again 
What is, and no man understands; 
And ont of darkness came the hands 

Hat reach thro' nature, moulding men. 

cxxv 

Whaterer I have said or sung, 
Some hitter notes my harp woold give. 
Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 

A eontauiiction on the tongue, 

Yet HoM had never lost her youth. 
She ffid but look through dimmer eyes; 
Or Love but play'd with gracious lies, 

Beeanae he felt so fix'd in truth; 

And if the song were full of care, 
He breathed the spirit of the song; 
And if the words were sweet and strong 

He set his royal signet there; 

Ahidi&gwith me till I sail 
To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
Aad this electric force, that keeps 

A tboQsand pulses dancing, fail. 

cxxvi 

I^rre is and was my lord and king. 

And in his presence I attend 
^"o hear the tidings of my friend, 
^*^>ich oTery hour his couriers bring. 

^^'^ i« and was my king and lord, 
^ will be, tho* as yet I keep 
Within the court on earth, ana sleep 

^oflompaaa'd by his faithful guard, 

•^"^J«ar at times a sentinel 
yho moyes about from place to place, 
And whispers to the worlds of space. 

In the deep night, that all is welL 

CXXVII 

^«n is well, tho' faith and form 
oe BQoder'd in the night of fear; 
Well roars the storm to those that 

Jx oeeper Toice across the storops 



Proclaiming social truth shaU spread. 
And justice, even tho' thrice again 
The red fool-fury of the Seine 

Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown. 
And him, the lazar, in his rags! 
They tremble, the sustaining crags; 

The spires of ice are toppled down. 

And molten up, and roar in flood; 
The fortress crashes from on high, 
The brute earth lightens to the sky. 

And the great ^ou sinks in blood. 

And compass'd by the ftres of hell; 
While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 

And smilest, knowing all is welL 

cxxvin 

The love that rose on stronger wings, 
Unpalsied when he met with Def^h, 
Is comrade of the lesser faith 

That sees the course of human things. 

No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
Of onward time shall yet be made. 
And throned races may degrade; 

Tet, O ye mysteries of good. 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Feaz^ 

If all your ofiBce had to do 

With old results that look like new — 
If this were all your mission here. 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword. 
To fool the crowd with glorious lieSy 
To cleave a creed in sects and crieSy 

To change the bearing of a word^ 

To shift an arbitrary power, 

To cramp the student at his desky 
To make old bareuess picturesque 

And tuft with grass a feudal tower, 

Why, then my scorn might well descend 
On you and vours. I see in part 
That all, as m some piece of art^ 

Is toil cooperant to an end. 

t 

CXXIX 

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire. 
So far, so near in woe and weal, 
O loved the most, when most I fed 

There is a lower and a higher; 



196 



IN MEMORIAM 



Known and unknown, human, divine; 

Sweet human hand and lips and eje; 

Dear heavenly friend that canst not 
die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 

Loved deeplier, darklier understood; 

Behold, I oream a dream of good. 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

cxxx 

Thy voice is on the rolling air; 

I hear thee where the waters mn; 

Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art nur. 

What art thou then ? I cannot guess; 
But tho' I seem in star and flower 
To feel thee some diffusive power, 

I do not therefore love thee less. 

My love involves the love before; 

My love is vaster passion now; 

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thoo, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh; 

I have thee still, and I rejoice; 

I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall ttot lose thee tho' I die. 

CXXXI 

O living will that shalt endure 

When all that seems shall suffer shock, 

Rise in the spiritual rock. 
Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
pure, 

That we may lift from out of dust 
A voice as unto him that hears, 
A cry above the conquer'd years 

To one that with us works, and trust. 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
The truths that never can be proved 
Until we close with all we loved. 

And all we flow from, soul in soul. 



O true and tried, so well and long, 
Demand not thou a marriage lay; 
In that it is thy marriage day 

Is mosio more than any song. 



Nor have I felt so mueh of bliss 
Since first he told me that he loved 
A daughter of our house, nor proved 

Since that dark day a day like this; 

Tho' I since then have nnmber'd o'er 
Some thrice three years; they went ai 

came, 
Benude the blood and ebuged tl 
frame. 
And yet is love not less, but mare; 

No longer caring to embalm 
In dying songs a dead regret^ 
But like a statue solid-set. 

And moulded in colossal cabn. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
Than in the summers that are flown. 
For I myself with these have grown 

To something greater than before; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
As echoes out of weaker times, 
As half but idle brawling rhymes. 

The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
That must be made a wife ere noon ? 
She enters, glowing like the moon 

Of Eden on its bridal bower. 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 

And then on thee; they meet thy look 
And brighten like the star that shook 

Betwixt the palms of Paradise. 

O, when her life was yet in bud. 
He too foretold the perfect rose. 
For thee she grew, for thee she grows 

For ever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy, full of power; 
As gentle; liberal-minded, great. 
Consistent; wearing all that weight 

Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out: the noon is near. 
And I must give away the bride; 
She fears not, or with thee beside 

And me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
That watch'd her on her nurse's arm. 



IN MEMORIAM 



197 



Thil aluelded all her life from harm, 
At lilt mnst part with her to thee; 

Now witting to he made a wife, 
Her feet, my darling, on the dead; 
Tbeir pensive tablets round her head, 

lad the most living words of life 

BtMthed in her ear. The ring is on, 
Tbe < Wilt thou ? ' answer'd, and again 
Tbe < Wilt thou ? ' ask'd, till out of twain 

Her sweet * I will ' has made you one. 

Kow sign your names, which shall be read, 
Mote symbols of a joyful mom, 
By Tillage eyes as yet unborn. 

The Dames are sigu'd, and overhead 

Benos the clash and clang that tells 
The joy to every wandering breeze; 
The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 

The dead leai trembles to the bells. 

happy hour, and happier hours 
Await them. Many a merry face 
Salntes them — maidens of the place, 

Tht pelt 08 in the porch with flowers. 

happy hour, behold the bride 
WiUi him to whom her hand I gave. 
They leave the porch, they pass the grave 

""•t has to-day its sunny sWe. 

TcHiay the grave is brij^ht for me, 
l^them the light of life increased, 
Who stay to share the morning feast, 

Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

l^all my genial spirits advance 

To meet and greet a whiter sun; 
^My drooping memory will not shun 
Hie foaming grape of eastern France. 

It eireles ronnd, and fancy plays, 
^^ hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, 
As drinking health to bride and groom 

We wish them store of happy days. 

Kor count me all to blame if I 
Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
I^erchance, perchance, among the rest, 

And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. 

But they mnst go, the time draws on, 
And those wl^te-favor'd horses wait; 



They rise, but linger; it is late; 
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
From little cloudlets on the g^rass, 
But sweeps away as out we pass 

To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
And talk of others that are wed. 
And how she look'd, and what he said. 

And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee. 
The shade of passing thought, the 

wealth 
Of words and wit, the doable health. 

The crowning cup, the three-times-three. 

And last the dance; — till I retire. 

Dumb is that tower which spake so 
loud. 

And high in heaven the streaming cloudy 
And on the downs a rising fire: 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down. 
Till over down and over dale 
All night the shining vapor sail 

And pass the silent-lighted town, 

Th« white-faced halls, the glancing rills. 
And catch at every mountain head. 
And o'er the friths that branch and 
spread 

Their sleeping silver thro' the hills; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
With tender gloom the roof, the wall; 
And breaking let the splendor fall 

To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
And, star and system rolling past, 
A soul shall draw from out the vast 

And strike his being into bounds. 

And, moved thro' life of lower phase^ 
Result in man, be bom and think, 
And act and love, a closer link 

Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
On knowledge; under whose command 
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand 

Is Nature like an open book; 



198 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



No longer half-akm to bmte. 

For all we thought and loved and did. 
And hoped, and suffered, is but seed 

Of what in them is flower and frmt; 

Whereof the man that with me trod 
This planet was a noble type 



Appearing ere the times were ripe^ 
That friend of mine who liTes in God, 



That God, which ever liyea and loyes, 
One €rod, one law, one element^ 
And one far-c^ divine eyent. 

To which the whols creation morm. 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Tins yolimie, pablished in 1855, contained in addition to ' liand ' the following poems: ' _ 
Brook,' « The Letters,' ' The Daisy,' ' Will," Lines to the Rev. F. D. Manrice ' (sU pablisliedfc 
the first time); with tiie ' Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington ,' already printed 
(1852, 1853) m pamphlet form, and 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' reprinted from 
' Ebauainer ' of ueoember 0, 1854 (also prirately reprinted in 1855). A second edition of the 
nme was pablished in 1856, when * Hand ' was considerably enlaiged. 



MAUD; A MONODRAMA 

This poem grew out of the lines, ' O, that 
't were possible,' etc, printed in * The Tribute ' 
in 1837, and now forming (with some altera- 
tions) the fourth section of Part 11. of the 
poem. Sir John Simeon, to whom Tennyson 
read these lines in the earlier days of their 
friendship,- saggested that something wss 
needed to explain the story. On this hint the 
poem was founded, and the greater part of it 
was written under a certain cedar in Sir John^s 
grounds at Swainston. For the additions made 
in 1856, and minor alterations made afterwards, 
see the Notes. 

The earlier critics of the poem failed to rec- 
ognize iti dramatic character. They ascribed 
to the author the thoughts and sentiments 
which he puts into the mouth of the morbid 
young man who is the dramatis persona; for, 
as in recent editions it has been designated, the 
poem is a * monodrama,' and, in that respect, 
unique. Tennyson, when reading it to Mr. 
Knowles, said (as in substance he said when 
reading it to me): * It should be called " Maud, 
or the Madness." It is slightly akin to ** Ham- 
let.*' No other poem (a monotone with plenty 
of change and no weariness) has been made 
into a drama where successive phases of pas- 
sion in one person take the place of successive 
persons.* At the end of *' Maud ' he declared, 
' I 've always said that " Biaud " and '* Gnine- 
Tere " were the finest things I 've written.' 

To Dr. Van Dyke, who in the first edition of 
' The Poetry of Tennyson ' had called ' Maud ' 
a ' splendid failure,' he said: *' I want to read 
this to you because I want you to feel what the 
poem means. It is dramatic; it is the story of 
a man who has a morbid natore, with a touch 



of inherited insanity, and very selfish, 
poem is to show what love does for bim. Th^ 
war is only an episode. Ton must remember 
that it is not I myself speaking. It is UdiP 
man with the strain of madness, in his bloody 
and the memory of a great trouble and atung 
that has put him out with the worid.' 

I felt, when I heard the poet read 'liaad,' 
that it was the best possible commentary on 
the poem. I had not misunderstood it, as Dr. 
Van Dyke did at first, but the readii^ made 
me see heights and depths in it of whicK I had 
bad no conception before. Especially was I 
amaxed, as my friend was, at * the intensity 
with which the poet had felt, and the tena- 
city with which he had pursued, the moral 
meaning of the poem. It was love, but not 
love in itself slone, as an emotion, an inward 
experience, a selfi^ possession, that he was 
revealing. It was love as a vital force, love as 
a part of life, love as an influence, — nay, tie 
influence which rescues the soul from the 
prison, or the madhouse, of self, and leads it 
into the larger, saner existence. This was 
the theme of *' Maud." And the poet's voiee 
brong^ht it out, and rang the changes on it, so 
that it was unmistakable and unforgettable, — 
the history of a man saved from selfish de- 
spair by a pure love.' For his last reading 
of the poem, see the * Memoir,' yoL L page 
395. 

The motto of * Maud ' might well have been 
the lines from * Locksley Hall ' which the poet 
was fond of copying when friends asked for 
his autc^raph: — 

LoTe to(^ up the hsrp of life, and OMto 00 aU the 

chorda with micht; 
Smote the chord of Self, that, trembUog, past fn 

outoXii^ht. 



MAUD 



199 



PART I 



I 



IiATi ths dieadful hollow behind the 

little wood; 
lb % a the field above are dabbled with 

Uood-fed heathy 
IV1 icd-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent 

homr of blood, 
Aid Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, an- 

iwexs * Death.' 

II 

F« there m the ghastly pit long since a 

body was found, 
Hiiwlw had given me life — O father I O 

GodI was it well? — 
Miigfed, and ilatten'd, and crush'd, and 

dinted into the ground; 
TWt jet liee the . roek that fell with him 

when he f elL 

III 

fti kt fliBg himself down ? who knows ? 

for a vast speenlatiou had fail'd, 
hi tftr he mattered and roadden'd, and 

ever wann*d with deiipair, to 

isd oat he walk'd when the wind like a 

broken worldling wail'd, 
iid tbe flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands 

drove tuo' the air. 

IV 

I itasmber the time, for the roots of my 

hair were stirr'd 
% a ihafiled step, by a dead weight trail'd, 

by a whwper'd fright, 
lad ny pulses closed their gates with a 

shock 00 my heart as I neard 
lit ihriU-edged shriek of a mother divide 

the shuddering night. 



TiDaiay somewhere 1 whose? One says, 

we are villains all. 
Kot he; his honest fame should at least by 

me be maintained; 
B«t that old man, now lord of the broad 

estate and the Hall, 
Diopt off gonrad from a scheme that had 

left xm iaeeid and draiix'd. ao 



VI 



Why do they prate of the blessings of 

peace ? we have made them a curse. 
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that 

is not its own; 
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it 

better or worse 
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war 

on his own hearthstone ? 

VII 

But these are the days of advance, the 

works of the men of mind. 
When who but a fool would have faith in a 

tradesman's ware or his word ? 
Is it peace or war ? Civil war, as I think, 

and that of a kind 
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing 

the sword. 

VIII 

Sooner or later I too may passively take 

the print 
Of the golden age — why not? I have 

neither hope nor trust; 30 

May make my heart as a millstone, set my 

face as a flint. 
Cheat and be cheated, and die — who 

knows ? we are ashes and dust 

IX 

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring 

the days gone by, 
When the poor are hovell'd and hustled 

togetiier, each sex, like swine. 
When only the ledger lives, and when only 

not all men lie; 
Peace in her vineyard — jet I — but a eom- 

pany forges the wine. 



And the vitriol madness flushes up in the 

ruffian's head, 
Tdl the fllthy by-lane rings to the yell o^ 

the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to 

the poor for bread, 
And the spirit of murder woriis in the very 

means of life, 40 

XI 

And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the vil- 
lainous centre-bits 

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of tbe 
moonless nights, 



200 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



While another is cheating the sick of a few 

last gasps, as he sits 
To pestle a poisou'd poisou hehind his crim- 

sou hghts. 

XII 

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe 

for a burial fee, 
And Tlmour-Mammon grins on a pile of 

children's bones, 
Is it peace or war ? better, war I loud war 

by land and by sea. 
War with a thousand battles, and shaking 

a hundred thrones I 

XIII 

For I trost if an enemy's fleet came yonder 

round by the hill. 
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the 

three-decker out of the foam, so 

That the smooth-faced, snub-nosed rogue 

would leap from his counter and till. 
And strike, if he could, were it but with his 

cheating yardwand, home. — 

XIV 

What! am I ra^ng alone as my father 

raged in his mood ? 
Must 1 too creep to the hollow and dash 

myself down and die 
Rather than hold by the law that I made, 

nevermore to brood 
On a horror of shattered limbs and a 

wretched swindler's lie ? 

XV 

Would there be sorrow for me f there was 

love in the passionate shriek^ 
Love for the silent thing that had made 

false haste to the grave — 
Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought 

he would rise and speak 
And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as 

he used to rave. 60 

XVI 

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am 

sick of the moor and the main. 
Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance 

ever come to me here ? 
O, having the nerves of motion as well as 

the nerves of pain, 
Were it not wise if I fled from the place 

and the pit and the fear ? 



xvn 

Workmen up at the Hall I — they are 

ing back from abroad; 
The dark old place will be gilt by the touel \ 

of a millionaire. ] 

I have heard, I know not whence, of tbt 

singular beauty of Maud; 
I play'd with the girl when a cMUL; 

promised then to be fair. 

xviii 

Maud, with her venturous dimbings 

tumbles and childish escapes, 
Maud, the delight of the village, the 

infi^ joy of the Hall, 
Maud, with her sweet purse-mouth 

my father dangled the grapes, 
Maud, the beloved of my mother, 

moon-faced darling of all, — 

xix 

What is she now ? My dreams are 

She may bring me a curse. 
No, there is fatter game on the moor; 

will let me alone. 
Thanks; for the fiend best knows wheth^'^ 

woman or man be the worse. 
I will bury myself in myself, and the Der^^ 

may pipe to his own. 



II 

Long have I sigh'd for a calm ; God gnnt 

I may find it at last ! 
It will never be broken by Maud ; she has 

neither savor nor salt. 
But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found 

when her carriage past, 
Perfectly beautiful; let it be granted her; 

where is the fault ? 80 

All that I saw — for her eyes were down- 
cast, not to be seen — 
Faultily faultless, icily reg^ular, splendidly 

null, 
Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, 

if it had not been 
For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's 

defect of the rose. 
Or an underlip, you may call it a little too 

ripe, too full, 
Or the least little delicate aquiline curve 

in a sensitive nose. 
From which I escaped heart-free, with the 

least little touch of spleen. 



MAUD 



201 



III 

Cildtiid eleai^«at fMe» whj oome yoa so 

ermll J meek, 
Bmkiif a ilamber in which all spleenful 

foUj was drown'd ? 
Pkltwith the golden beam of an eyelash 

dead on the cheek, 90 

hnioiilsM, pale, eold face, star-sweet on 

a gioom profound ; 
W«BaaluKe, taking reyenge too deep for a 

transient wrong 
Dnt bot in thought to your beauty, and 

eTer as pale as before 
Giowiag and fading and growing upon me 

without a sound, 
Ijwiiiioys, gerolike, ghostlike, deathlike. 

half Uie nieht long 
Gfoviog and fading and growing, till I 

coold bear it no more. 
Bit inse, and all by myself in my own 

dark garden ground, 
Urteaing now to the tide in its broad-fluug 

liupwrecking roar, 
K«w to tne scream of a madden'd beach 

dragg'd down by the wave, 
Wilk'd in a wintry wind by a ghastly 

fflimmer, and found 100 

Tk ibaing daffodil dead, and Orion low 

in his graye. 



IV 



A Billion emeralds break from the ruby- 
bodded lime 

Is the little grove where I sit — ah, where- 
fore cannot I be 

like things of the season gay, like the 
boantifnl season bland, 

Wkn the far-off sail is blown by the breeze 

of a softer clime, 
Bslf-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a 

crescent of sea. 
Us silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring 
of theUnd? 

II 

Below me, there, is the village, and looks 
bow quiet and small f 

Aad yet bobbles o'er like a city, with gos- 
sip, scandal, and spite; 
Faek 00 his ale-house bench has as 
17 liea as a Czar; 110 



And here on the landward side, by a red 

rock, glimmers the Hall; 
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her 

pass like a light; 
But sorrow seize me if ever that light be 

my leading star 1 

III 
When have I bow'd to her father, the 

wrinkled head of the race ? 
I met her to-day with her brother, but not 

to her brother I bow'd; 
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on 

the moor. 
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over 

her beautiful face. 

child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, 

in being so proud ; 
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I 
am nameless and poor. 

IV 

1 keep but a man and a maid, ever ready 

to slander and steal; lao 

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like 

a stoic, or like 
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have 

its way. 
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no 

preacher can heal; 
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the 

sparrow spear'd by the shrike. 
And the whole little wood where I sit is a 

world of plunder and prey. 



We are puppets, Man in his pride, and 

Beauty fair in her flower; 
Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an 

unseen hand at a game 
lliat pushes us off from the board, and 

others ever succeed ? 
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other 

here for an hour; 
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and 

grin at a brother's shame; 130 

However we brave it out, we men are a 

little breed. 

VI 

A monstrous eft was of old the lord and 

master of earth. 
For him did his high sun flame, and his 

river billowing ran. 
And he felt himself m his force to be Na- 

tare's crowning race. 



202 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



As nine months ^ to the shaping an infant 

ripe for his hirth, 
So many a million of ages have gone to the 

making of man: 
He now is first, but is be the last ? is he 

not too base ? 

VII 

The man of science himself is fonder of 

glory, and vain. 
An eye well-practised in natore, a spirit 

bounded and poor; 
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd 

into folly and vice. 140 

I would not marvel at either, but keep a 

temperate brain; 
For not to desire or admire, if a man could 

learn it, were more 
Than to walk all day like the snltan of old 

in a garden of spice. 

VIII 

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis 

hid by the veil. 
Who knows the ways of the world, how 

God will bring them about ? 
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the 

world is wide* 
Shall I weep if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek 

if a Hungary fail ? 
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod 

or with knout ? 
/ have not made the world, and He that 

made it will guide. 

IX 

Be mine a philosopher's life in the quiet 

woodland ways, iso 

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless 

peace be my lot, 
Far-off from the clamor of liars belied in 

the hubbub of lies; 
From the long-neck'd geese of the world 

that are ever hissing dispraise 
Because their natures are little, and, 

whether he heed it or not, 
Where each man walks with his head in a 

cloud of poisonous flies. 



And most of all would I flee from the cruel 

madness of love 
'ihe honey of poison-flowers and all the 

measureless ill. 
Ah, Maud, you milk-white fawn, you are 

all unmeet for a wife. 



Your mother is mute in her grave aibsr 

image in marble above; 
Your father is ever in Landony yon waader 

about at your will; rfo 

You have but fed on the rotes and kin ii 

the lilies of life. 



A voice by the cedar tree 

In the meadow under the Hall I 

She is singing an air that ia known to m^ 

A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 

A martial song like a trumpet's caU I 

Singing alone in the morning of life, 

In the happy mominp^ of life and of Msji 

Singing of men that m battle array, 

Ready in heart and ready in hand, tf 

March with banner and buffle and fife 

To the death, for their native land. 

II 

Maud with her exquisite face. 

And wild voice pealing up to the smrny iky. 

And feet like sunny gems on an Eogliah 
green, 

Maud m the light of her youth and to 
grace. 

Singing of Death, and of Honor that can- 
not die. 

Till I well could weep for a time so loidid 
and mean, 

And myself so languid and base. 

Ill 

Silence, beautiful voice I ^ 

Be still, for you only trouble the mind 

With a joy in which I cannot rejoioe, 

A glory I shall not find. 

Still I I will hear you no more. 

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 

choice 
But to move to the meadow and fall before 
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adoire, 
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind^ 
Not her, not her, but a voice. 



VI 



Morning arises stormy and pale. 

No sun, but a wannish glare 

In fold upon fold of hueless oloud; 



MAUD 



203 



And the badded peaks of the wood are 

bow'd. 
Ought, and oniTd by the g&le: 
Ikkd fiineied it would be &iT. 

II 

Whom hot Mand should I meet 

LMt night, when the sunset bum*d 

On the olossoni'd gable-ends 

At the bead of the villaee street. 

Whom but Maud should I meet ? aoo 

And ihe touch'd my hand with a smile so 

sweet, 
^ made me divine amends 
For a eoortesy not retum'd. 

Ill 

And thus a delicate spark 

0! glowing and growmg light 

Ihio' the uvelou^ hours of the dark 

Kept itself warm m the heart of my dreams, 

Beady to burst in a color'd flame ; 

Till at last, when the morning came 

In a cloud, it faded, and seems sio 

Bat an sshen-gray delight 

IV 

What if with her sunny hair, 

And smile as sunny as cold. 

She meant to weave me a snare 

Of some eoquettish deceit, 

Cleopatra-luce as of old 

To aitangle me when we met. 

To have her lion roll in a silken net 

And fawn at a victor's feet 



Ah, what shall I be at fifty 

Sbonld Nature keep me alive. 

If I find the world so bitter 

When I am but twenty-five ? 

Tet, if she were not a cheat. 

If Hand were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile were all that I dream'd, 

Hien the world were not so bitter 

But a unile oould make it sweet 

VI 

What if, tho' her eye seem'd full 
Of a kind intent to me. 
What if that dandy-despot, he. 
That jeweird mass of millinery. 
That oil'd and curl'd Assyrian bull 
Smdling of musk and of insolence, 
£er brotheri from whom X keep aloof, 



aao 



ajo 



Who wants the finer politic sense 
To mask, tho' but in his own behoof. 
With a glassy smile his brutal scorn — 
What if he had told her yestermom 
How prettily for his own sweet sake 240 
A face of tenderness might be feign'd. 
And a moist mirage in desert eyes, 
That so, when the rotten hustings shake 
In another month to his brazen Ties, 
A wretched vote may be gain'd ? 

VII 

For a raven evei croaks, at my side. 
Keep watch and ward, keep watch and 

ward, 
Or thou wilt prove their tool. 
Yea, too, myself from myself I guard. 
For often a man's own angry pride ty» 

Is cap and bells for a fool. 

vin 

Perhaps the smile and tender tone 
Came out of her pitying womanhood, 
For am I not, am I not, here alone 
So many a summer since she died. 
My mother, who was so gentle and good ? 
Living alone in an empty house. 
Here half-hid in the gleaming wood. 
Where I hear the dead at midday moan. 
And the shrieking rush of the wainscot 

mouse, 260 

And my own sad name in comers cried. 
When the shiver of dancing leaves is 

thrown 
About its echoing chambers wide. 
Till a morbid hate and horror have grown 
Of a world in which I have hardly mixt, 
And a morbid eating lichen fixt 
On a heart half-tum'd to stone. 

IX 

O heart of stoiie, are yon flesh, and caught 
By that you swore to withstand ? 269 

For what was it else within me wrought 
But, I fear, the new strong wine of love, 
That made my tongue so stammer and 

trip 
When I saw the treasured splendor, her 

hand. 
Come sliding out of her sacred glove, 
And the sunlight broke from her lip ? 



I have play'd with her when a child ^ 
She remembers it now we meet 



204 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Ahy welly well, well, I may be beguiled 

By some coqaetfcish deceit. 

Yet, if she were not a cheat, a8o 

If Maad were all that she seem'd. 

And her smile had all that I dieam'd. 

Then the world were not so bitter 

Bat a smile ooold make it sweet. 



VII 



Did I bear it half in a doze 
Lonf since, I know not where ? 

Did I dream it an hour ago, 
When asleep in this arm-chair ? 



II 



Men were drinking together, 
Drinking and talking of me: 

* Well, if it prove a girl, the boy 
Will have plenty; so let it be.' 



390 



ni 



Is it an echo of something 
Read with a boy's delight, 

Viziers noddin? together 
In some Arabian night ? 



IV 



Strange, that I hear two men. 
Somewhere, talking of me: 

* Well, if it prove a girl, my boy 
Will have plenty; so let it be.' 



300 



VIII 

She came to the village church, 

And sat by a pillar alone; 

An angel watohing an urn 

Wept over her, carved in stone; 

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes. 

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely bluah'd 

To find they were met by my own ; 

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat 

stronger 
And thicker, until I heard no longer 
The snowy-banded, dilettante, 310 

Delicate-handed priest intone ; 
And thought, is it pride 7 and mused and 

sigh'd, 
' No surely, now it cannot be pride.' 



IX 

I was walking a mile. 
More than a mile from the Sim 
The sun look'd out with a smile 
Betwixt the cloud and the mooi 
And riding at set of day 
Over the dark moor land. 
Rapidly riding far away. 
She waved to me with her hanc 
There were two at her side, 
Something flash'd in the sun, 
Down by the hill I saw them ri 
In a moment they were gone; 
Like a sudden spark 
Struck vainly in the night. 
Then returns the dark 
With no more hope of li^it. 



Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread ? 
Was not (me of the two at her side 
This new-made lord, whose splendor 
The slavish hat from the villager's 1 
Whose old grandfather has lately di 
Gone to a blacker pit, for whom 
Grimy nakedness dragging his trucl 
And laying his trams in a poison'd | 
Wrought, till he crept from a gutter 
Master of half a servile shire. 
And left his coal all tum'd into gold 
To a grandson, first of his noble line 
Rich in the gnee all women desire, 
Strong in the power that all men ad* 
And simper and set their voices low< 
And soften as if to a girl, and hold 
Awe-stricken breaths at a work divi 
Seeing his gewgaw castle shine. 
New as his title, built last year. 
There amid perky larches and pine. 
And over the sullen-purple moor — 
Look at it — pricking a cockney ear. 

II 

What, has he found my jewel out ? 
For one of the two that rode at her 
Bound for the Hall, I am sure was 1 
Bound for the Hall, and I think 

bride. 
Blithe would her brother's acceptanc 



MAUD 



3o; 



Midi eoald be grmeiooi too, no doabt, 
To & lord, a captain, a padded shape, 
A IxR^t eommtflsioD, a waxen face, 
A nbnt moath that is ever agape — 360 
BoQgfat ? what ia it he eannot buy ? 
And tlierefo(re splenetic, personal, base, 
A wonnded thing with a rancorous cry, 
At war with myself and a wretched race, 
Siek, aiek to the heart of life, am L 

III 

List week came one to the county town. 
To preach our poor little army down. 
And play the game of the despot kings, 
Iho' the state has done it and thrice as 
well. 369 

This broad-brimm*d hawker of holy things, 
Wiioae ear is cramm'd witti his cotton, and 

rings 
Efen in cuneams to the chink of his pence, 
This hackster put down war I can he tell 
Mliether war be a cause or a consequence ? 
hit down the passions that make earth 

hell! 

BowD with ambition, avarice, pride, 
Jesloosy, down f cut off from the mind 
The bitter springs of ang^r and fear I 
Bown too, down at your own fireside. 
With the eyil tongue and the evil ear, 380 
Por each is at war with mankind ! 

IV 

I wish I eonld hear again 

The ehiwalrous battle-song 

Iliat she warbled alone iu her joy I 

I might persuade myself then 

She woaid not do herself this great wrong. 

To take a wanton dissolute boy 

For a man and leader of men. 



^Lh God, for a man with heart, head, 

hand, 
LAe some of the simple great ones gone 
Por ewer and ever by, 391 

One still strong man in a blatant land, 
WhBtever they call him — what care I ? — 
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat — one 
Who can role and diure not lie I 

VI 

And ah for a man to arise in me, 
That the man I am may cease to be I 



XI 



O, let the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 400 

What some have found so sweet I 
Then let come what come may, 
What matter if I go mad, 
I shall have had my day. 

II 

Let the sweet heavens endnre. 
Not close and darken above me 

Before I am quite quite sure 
That there is one to love me I 

Then let come what come may 

To a life that has been so sad, 410 

I shall have had my day. 



XII 



Birds in the hiffh Hall-garden 
When twilirat was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
They were crying and calling. 

II 

Where was Mand ? in our wood ; 

And I — who else ? — was with her, 
Gathering woodland lilies. 

Myriads blow together. 



Ill 



Birds in our wood sang 
Ringing thro' the valleys, 

Mand is here, here, here 
In among the lilies. 



420 



IV 



i. kiss'd her slender hand. 
She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen. 
But she is tall and stately. 



I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor I 
O, Maud were sure of heaven 

If lowliness could save her 1 



430 



9o6 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



VT 



I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden poey, 

For her feet have toach'd the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 



VTI 



Birds in the high Hall-Garden 
Were crying and callm^ to her. 

Where is Maud, Maud, l£uid ? 
One is come to woo her. 



vm 



440 



450 



Look, a horse at the door, 

And little Kxae Charley snarling I 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 

You are not her darling. 



XIII 



Soom'd, to be scom*d by one that I scorn, 

Is that a matter to make me fret ? 

That a calamity hard to be borne ? 

Well, he may live to hate me yet. 

Fool that I am to be yezt with his pride t 

I past him, I was crossing his lands; 

He stood on the path a little aside; 

His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, 

Has a broad -blown comeliness, red and 

white. 
And six feet two, as I think, he stands; 
But his essences tum'd the live air sick. 
And barbarous opulence jewel-thick 
Sunu'd itself on his breast and his hands. 

II 

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair ? 
I long'd so heartily then and there 
To give him the grasp of fellowship; 
But while I past he was humming an air, 460 
Stopt, and then with a riding-whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot. 
And curving a contumelious lip, 
Gorgonized me from head to foot 
With a stony British stare. 

in 

Why sits he here in his father's chair ? 
That old man never comes to his place; 
Shall I believe him ashamed to be seen ? 
For only onoe, in the village street, 469 



Last year, I caught a glimpse of his 
A gray old wolf and a lean. 
Scftfcely, now, would I call him a dieat; 
For then, pei^ps, as a child of deeeit» 
She might by a true descent be vntnie; 
And Maud is as true as Mand ia sweety 
Tho' I fancy her sweetness only due 
To the sweeter blood by the other side; 
Her mother has been a thing complete^ 
However she came to be so allied* 
And fair without, faithful within, 4 

Mand to him is nothing akin. 
Some peonliar mystic grace 
Made her only the child of her moClin^ 
And heap'd the whole inherited sin 
On that huge scapegoat of the raoe^ 
All, all upon the brother. 

IV 

Peace, angry spirit, and let him be I 
Has not his sister smiled on me ? 



XIV 



Mand has a garden of roses 
And lilies fair on a lawn; 
There she walks in her state 
And tends upon bed and bower, 
And thither 1 climb'd at dawn 
And stood by her garden-gate. 
A Hon ramps at the top, 
He is daspt by a passion-flower. 



II 

Maud's own little oak-room — 

Which Maud, like a precious ^tone 

Set in the heart of the carven gloom. 

Lights with herself, when alone 500 

She sits by her music and books 

And her brother lingers late 

With a roystering company — looks 

Upon Maud's own garden-gate; 

And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as 

white 
As ocean-foam in the moon, were laid 
On the hasp of the window, and my De- 
light 
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, 

to glide. 
Like a beam of the seventh heaven, down 

to my side. 
There were bnt a step to be made. 510 



MAUD 



307 



III 



He fuiej flatter'd my miDd, 

Andigtin Beem'd overbold; 

Now I thought that she cared for me, 

Now I thought she wai kind 

Only beeanae she was cold. 

IV 

I betrd no sound where I stood 
But the riwulet on from the lawn 
Raimmg down to my own dark wood, 
Or the Toioe of the long sea-wave as it 

sweird 
Now and then in the dim-gray dawn; 520 
fiat I look'd, and roun^ all round the 

house I beheld 
The death-white curtain drawn, 
Felt a horror over me creep, 
Prickle my skin and catch my breath. 
Knew that the death- white curtain meant 

but sleep, 
let I shudder'd and thought like a fool of 

the sleep of death. 



XV 

So dark a mind wiUiin me dwells, 
And I make myself such evil cheer, 

'^^ if / be dear to some one else, 
Tben some one else may have much to 
fear; 530 

But if / be dear to some one else, 
"nien I should be to mvself more dear. 

Skall I not take care of all that I think, 

lea, even of wretched meat and drink, 

Iflbedear, 

If I be dear to some one else ? 



XVI 

I 

iliis lomp of earth has left his estate 
^ lighter by the loss of his weight; 
Aod so that he find what he went to seek, 
And fnlsome pleasure clog him, and 
drown 540 

Hii heart in the gross mud-honey of town. 
He may stay for a year who has gone for a 

week, 
fiot this is the day when I must speak, 
Aad 1 see my Oread coming down, 
Oithisistbedajl 



beautiful creature, what am I 
That I dare to look her way ? 
Think I may hold dominion sweet, 

Lord of the pulse that is lord of her breast. 
And dream of her beauty with tender 

dread, 550 

From the delicate Arab arch of her feet 
To the grace that, bright and light as the 

crest 
Of a peacock, sits on her shining head, 
And she knows it not — O, if she knew it. 
To know her beauty might half undo it i 

1 know it the one bright thine to save 
My yet young life in the wilds of Time, 
Perhaps from madness, perhaps from crime. 
Perhaps from a selfish grave. 

II 

What, if she be fastened to this fool lord. 

Dare I bid her abide by her word ? 561 

Should I love her so well if she 

Had given her word to a thing so low ? 

Shall I love her as well if she 

Can break her word were it even for me ? 

I trust that it is not so. 



Ill 

Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart. 
Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eye. 
For I must tell her before we part, 
I must tell her, or die. 



S70 



XVII 

Go not, happy day. 

From the shining fields, 
60 not, happy day. 

Till the maiden yields. 
Rosy is the West, 

S[osy is the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 
When the happy Yes 

Falters from her lips. 
Pass and blush the news 

Over glowing ships; 
Over blowing seas, 

Over seas at rest. 
Pass the happy news. 

Blush it thro' the West; 
Till the red man dance 

By his red cedar-tree. 
And the red man's babe 

Leap, beyond the tea. 



IP9 



3o8 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Blush from West to East, 

Blush from East to West, 
Till the West is East, 

Blush it thro' the West 
Rosy is the West, 

Rosy b the South, 
Roses are her cheeks. 

And a rose her mouth. 



XVIII 



I hava led her home, mj love, mj only 

friend. 
There is none like her, none. 600 

And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
And sweetly, on and on 
Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end. 
Full to the banks, dose on the promised 

good. 

n 

None like her, none. 

Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering 

talk 
Seem'd her light foot along the garden 

walk. 
And shook my heart to think she comes 

once more. 
But even then I heard her close the door; 
The gates of heaven are dosed, and she is 

gone. 610 

III 

There is none like her, none, 

Nor will be when our summers have de- 
ceased. 

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 

In the long breeze that streams to thy de- 
licious East, 

Sighing for Lebanon, 

Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here in- 
creased, 

Upon a pastoral slope as fair, 

And looking to the South and fed 

With honey'd rain and delicate air, 

And haunted by the starry head 6ao 

Of her whose gentle will has changed my 
fate, 

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame; 

And over whom thy darkness must have 
spread 

With such delight as theirs of old, thy 
great 



Forefathers of the thomless garden. 
Shadowing the snow-limb^ Eva 
whom she came ? 



TV 

Here will I lie, while these long 

away. 
And you fair stars that crown a hi^py dm^j 
Go in and out as if at merry play. 
Who am no more so all forlorn 
As when it seem'd far better to be borm 
To labor and the mattock-harden'd haiiA 
Than nursed at ease and brought to 

stand 
A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
That makes you tyrants in your iron 
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
Cold fires, yet with power to bom 

brand 
His nothingness into man. 



But now shine on, and what oare I, 

Who in this stormy gulf have foond i^ 
pearl 6#o 

The countercharm of space and hoUoir 
sky. 

And do accept my madness, and woola 
die 

To save from some slight shame one sim- 
ple girl ? — 

VI 

Would die, for sullen-seeming Death may 

give 
More life to Love than is or ever was 
In our low world, where yet 't is sweet to 

live. 
Let no one ask me how it came to pass; 
It seems that I am happy, that to me 
A livelier emerald twinkles in the graaSy 
A purer sapphire melts into the sea. (90 

VII 

Not die, but live a life of truest breath. 

And teach true life to fight with mortal 
wrongs. 

O, why should Love, like men in drinking- 
song^ 

Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 
death ? 

Make answer, Mand my bliss, 

Maud made my Maud by that long loving 
kiss, 

Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this? 



MAUD 



209 



'1W doaky iCimiid of Demth inworen here 
With dMur Lore's tie, makes Love himself 

vni 

b tbil eMhantud moan ool j the swell 660 
Of Iks loaf wares that roll in jonder bay ? 
Aad kuk the elock within, the silver knell 
(M twelfe sweet hours that past in bridal 
white. 

Aid died to live, long as mj pnlses play; 

Bit BOW by this my lore has closed her 
sight 

Aid gtfen false death her hand, and stolen 
away 

Todnamfnl wastes where footless fancies 
dweU 

AooQg the fragments of the ffolden day. 

Majsothing ther« her maiden grace af- 
fright I 

Dm bevt, I feel with thee the drowsy 
mD. 670 

Mj bride to be, my evermore delight, 

Mj ofva heart's heart, my ownest own, 
^tfewell; 

It ii but for a little space I go. 

Aid yt meanwhile far over moor and fell 

But to the noiseless music of the night I 

Bm osr whole earth gone nearer to the 
glow 

Of 7«ir soft splendors that yon look so 
bight? 

/kfielimb'd nearer ont of lonely hell. 

HntflMppy stars, timing with things be- 
low. 

But with my heart more blest than heart 
esatell, 680 

Bkrt, bat for some dark nnderenrrent woe 

IWt seems to draw — but it shall not be 

UtiUtowoU^bewelL 



XIX 



Bsr brother is ooming back to-night, 
Breaking up my dream of delight. 

n 

My dream ? do I dream of bliss ? 
I have walk'd awake with ThiUl 
O, when did a morning shine 
80 ridi in atonement as this 
Fcr mj dark-dawning yonthi 



Darken'd watching a mother decline 
And that dead man at her heart and mine; 
For who was left to watch her bat I ? 
Yet so did I let my freshness die. 

ni 

I trust that I did not talk 

To gentie Maud in our walk — 

For often in lonely wanderings 

I have cursed him even to lifeless 

But I trust that I did not talk. 

Not touch on her father's sin. 

I am sure I did but speak 

Of my mother's fadea cheek 

When it slowly grew so thin 

That I felt she was slowly dying 

Vext with lawyers and harass'd with debt; 

For how often I caught her with eyes all 

wet. 
Shaking her head at her son and yghing 
A world of trouble within I 

IV 

And Maud too, Maud was moved 

To speak of the mother she loved 710 

As one scarce less forlorn, 

Dying abroad and it seems apart 

From him who had ceased to share her 

heart. 
And ever mourning over the feud, 
The household Fur}' sprinkled with blood 
By which our housei are torn. 
How strange was what she said. 
When only Maud and the brother 
Hung over her dving bed — 
That Maud's dark father and mine 790 

Had bound us one to the other, 
Betrothed us over their wine, 
On the day when Maud was bom; 
Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath I 
Mine, mine by a right, from birth till death! 
Mine, mine -» onr fatiiers have swomi 



But the tme blood spilt had in it a heat 
To dissolve the precious seal on a bond. 
That, if left nneancell'd, had been so sweet; 
And none of us thought of a something 

beyond, 730 

A desire that awoke in the heart of the 

child. 
As it were a duty done to the tomb. 
To be friends for her sake, to be recon- 

efled; 
And I was eoning them aod my doooi 



2 TO 



MAUD. AND OTHER POEMS 



ran 



And leitiiig a dangerous thonght 

wild 

While often abroad in the fragrant gloom 
Of foreifl;n ohnrehes — I see her there, 
Bright Lnglish lily, breathing a prayer 
To be friends, to be reoonciled 1 



VI 



740 



Bat then what a flint is he I 
Abroad, at Florence, at Rome, 
I find wheneyer she toaoh'd on me 
This brother had lang^'d her down. 
And at last, when each came home. 
He had darken'd into a frown. 
Chid her, and forbid her to speak 
To me, her friend of the years before; 
And this was what had redden'd her 

cheek 
When I bow'd to her oa the moor. 



vn 



Yet Mand, altho* not blind 
To the faults of his heart and mind, 
I see she cannot bat loye him. 
And says he is rongh bat kind. 
And wishes me to approve him. 
And tells me, when she lay 
8iek (mce, with a fear of worse. 
That he left his wine and horses 

Sat with her, read to her, nig^t and day, 
And tended her like a norse. 

vni 

Kind ? but the death-bed desire 
Sparu'd by this heir of the liar — 
Rongh bat kind ? yet I know 
He has plotted against me in this, 
That he plots against me still. 
Kind to liand ? that were not amiss. 
Well, rongh but kind; why, let it be so^ 
For shall not Mand haye hsr will ? 

DC 

For, Maod, so tender and troe. 
As long as my life endures 
I feel I shall owe yon a debt 
That I never can hope to pay; 
And if ever I should forget 
That I owe this debt to you 
And for your sweet sake to yoozBy 
O, then, what then shall I say ? — 
If ever I should forget. 
May God make me more wretched 
Than ever I have beei yet 1 



79> 



and 



760 



770 



So now I have sworn to bury 
All this dead body of hate, 
I feel so free and so clear 
By the loss of that dead weight, 
That I should grow light-heade< 
Fantastically merry, 
But that her brother comes, likf 
On my fresh hope, to the Hall t 

XX 



Strange, that I felt so gay, 
Strang^, that I tried to-day 
To beguile her melancholy; 
The Sultan, as we name mm- 
She did not wish to blame hii 
But he vext her and perplext 
With his worldly talk and fol 
Was it gentle to reprove her 
For steidine out of view 
From a little lazy lover 
Who but claims her as his dn 
Or for chilling his caresses 
By the coldness of her manne 
^y, the plainness of her drei 
Now I know her but in two, 
Nor can pronounce npon it 
If one should ask me whethei 
The habit, hat, and feather, 
Or the frock and gipsy bonne 
Be the neater and completer; 
For nothing can be sweeter 
Than maiden Maud in either. 

n 

But to-morrow, if we live, 
Our ponderous squire will g^^ 
A grand political dinner 
To half the squirelings near; 
And Mand will wear her jew< 
And the bird of prey will hov 
And the titmouse hope to win 
With his chirrup at her ear. 

ni 

A grand political dinner 
To the men of many acres, 
A gathering of the Tory, 
A dinner and then a dance 
For the maids and marriage-i 
And every eye but mine will 
At Maud in all her glory. 



MAUD 



211 



IV 

For I m sot mTited» 

Btif with the Sultan's fwzdoiiY 

I am til aft well delighted. 

For I know her own roee-gardent 

Aad mean to linger in it 

lUl the danmng will be over; 

Amd then, O, then, oome out to me 830 

For m minute, but for a minute, 

Cotne oat to jour own true lover. 

That jour true lover maj see 

Toiar glorj also, and render 

All homage to his own darlinff, 

(in m ma Maud in all her splendor. 

XXI 

Biw«]et erotsing oij ground. 
Ami bringing me down from the Hall 
^"^sia gar£n-roee that I found, 
F ogytfiJ ^ Maud and me, 840 

AaaJloet in trouble and moving round 
K«cc at the head of a tinkling fall, 
^nd tiring to pass to the sea; 
^ rivulet, bom at the Hall, 
^y Mand has sent it by thee — 

^^ I road her sweet will right — 

Y^ ft blushing mission to me, 

^jing in odor and color, ' Ah, be 

Amoag the roees to-night' 



XXII 



Cone into the garden, Maud, S90 

For the black bat, night, has flown. 

Came into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone; 

Aid the woodbine spices are wafted aoroad. 
And the musk of the rose is blown. 

n 

For a breeie of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Begiaaing to faint in the light that she 
loves 
On a bed of daffodil skj. 

To faint in the liriit of the sun she loves. 
To faint in his light, and to die. 861 

III 

AD mght have the roses heard 
The flate, violin, bassoon; 



All night has the easement iessamine stirr'd 
To the dancers dancing m tune; 

Till a silence fell with the waking bird. 
And a hush with the setting moon. 

IV 

I said to the lil j, * There is bat one. 

With whom she has heart to be ffaj. 
When will the dancers leave her akme ? 870 

She is wearj of dance and plaj.' 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising daj; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stood 

The last wheel echoes awaj. 



I said to the rose, ' The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O voung lord-lover, what sighs are those, 

For one that will never be thine ? 
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the 
rose, 880 

* For ever and ever, mine.* 

VI 

And the soul of the rose went into mj 
blood. 
As the music clash'd in the hall; 
And long bj the garden lake I stood, 

For I heard jour rivulet fall 
From the lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood. 
Our wood, that is dearer than all; 

VII 

From the meadow jour walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March-wind sighs 
He sets the jewel-print of jour feet 890 

In violets blue as jour ejes, 
To the woodj hollows in which we meet 

And the vallejs of Paradise. 

VIII 

The slender acacia would not shaka 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake -blossom fell into the 
Uke 

As the pimpernel doied oa the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for jour 
sake. 

Knowing jour promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, goc 

Thej sigh'd for the dawn and thee. 



SI2 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



IX 

Qaeen rose of the rosebad gmrden of girls, 
Come hither, the dances are done, 

In eloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Qaeen UIy and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
earls. 
To the flowers, and be their son. 



There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coming, my dove, my dear; 910 

She is conung, my life, my fate. 
The red rose cries, ' She is near, she is 
near;' 

And the white rose weeps, * She is late; ' 
The larkspur listens, * I hear, I hear; * 

And the lily whispers, ' I wait' 

XI 

She is oomiag, my own, my sweet; 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
Myheart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthy bed; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 910 

Had I lain for a century dead. 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 



PART II 



< The &olt was mine, the fault was mine ' — 
Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, 
Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the 

hill? — 
It is this guilty hand 1 — 
And there rises ever a passionate cry 
From underneath in the darkening land — 
What is it, that has been done ? 
O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, 
The fires of hell brake out of thy rising 

sun. 
The fires of hell and of hate; xo 

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a 

word, 
When her brother ran in his rage to the 

gate. 
He came with the babe-faced lord, 
Heap'd on her terms of 



And while she wept, and I strove to be 
He fiercely gave me the lie. 
Till I with as fierce an anger spoke. 
And he struck me, madman, over the 
Struck me before the languid fool. 
Who was gaping and grinning by; 
Struck for himself an evil stroke. 
Wrought for his boose an 

woe. 
For front to front in an hour we stood. 
And a million horrible bellowing 

broke 
From the red-zibb'd hi^w behind 

wood. 
And thunder'd up into heaven the Christla— 

code 
That must have life for a blow. 
Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to gio ^ s 
Was it he lay there with a fiuline eye ? 
' The fault was mine,' he wUspePd, * fly W 
Then glided out of the joyous wood :3 

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know. 
And there rang on a sadden a pessinnt ifc* 

cry, 
A cry for a brother's blood; 
It will ring in my heart and my eus, till X 

die, till I die. 

n 

Is it gone ? my pulses beat -^ 

What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ? 

Tet I thought I saw her stand, 

A shadow there at my feet, 

High over the shadowy land. 40 

It is gone ; and the heavens &11 in a gentle 
rain. 

When they should burst and drown with 
deluging storms 

The feeble va^als of wine and anger and 
lust, 

The little hearts that know not how to for- 
give. 

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold 
Thee just. 

Strike dead the whole weak race of venooH 
ous worms. 

That sting each other here in the dost; 

We are not worthy to live. 



II 



See what a lovely shell. 
Small and pore as a pearli 



MAUD 



213 



Ljmi^ elote to my foot, 
Frail, bat a work diTiney 
Mideiofairilj well 
With delieftto •pire and whorl, 
flow einqigitely minntey 
A mntib of detien 1 



70 



n 

Wliftt it it ? a learned man 
Could giTe it a clomsy name, 
let liini name it who can, 
'^ hettttj would be the same. 

Ill 

^"be tiny eell is forlorn, 
;^oid of the litUe liying will 
^^^^t made it stir on the shore, 
j^^ut lie stand at the diamond door 
0^ \uM bouse in a rainbow frill ? 
^^Hi be jmsh, when he was nncurl'd, 
^^olden foot or a fairy horn 
^^^^*o' his dim water-world ? 

IV 

^igfat, to be emsh'd with a tap 
^f my finger-nail on the sand, 
^HialC but a work divine, 
^rmil, but of force to withstand, 
Tear upon year, the shock 
Of eataract seas that snap 
Tbe three-decker's oaken spine 
Athwart the ledges of rock, 
Bere on the Breton strand t 



Breton, not Briton; here 

Like a shipwrecked man on a ooast 

Of ancient fable and fear — 

Plagued with a flitting to and fro, 

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 

That nerer came from on high 

Kor ever arose from below, 

Bat only mores with the moring eye, 

Firing along the land and tbe main — 

Why should it look like Mand ? 

Am I to be overawed 

By what I eannot but know 

Is a juggle bom of the brain ? 90 

VI 

Back from the Breton ooast, 
Sick of a nameless fear, 
Back to the dark sea-line 
Looking, thinking of all I hare lost; 



80 



An old son? rexes m^ ear, 
Bnt that of Liamech is mine. 



vu 

For years, a measureless ill. 
For years, for erer, to part — 
But she, she would love me still; 
And as lon^, O God, as she 
Have a gram of lore for me, 
So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
Shall I nurse in my dark heart, 
Howerer weary, a spark of will 
Not to be trampled out. 

vni 

Strange, that the mind, when fraught 

With a passion so intense 

One would think that it well 

Might drown all life in the eye, — 109 

That it should, by being so overwrought. 

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 

For a shell, or a flower, little thines 

Which else would have been past by t 

And now I remember, I, 

When he lay dying there, 

I noticed one of his many rings ^- 

For he had many, poor worm ^- and 

thought. 
It is his mother's hair. 

IX 

Who knows if he be dead ? 

Whether I need have fled ? im 

Am I guilty of blood ? 

However this may be, 

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, 

While I am over the sea I 

Let me and my passionate love go by, 

But speak to her all things holy and hign, 

Whatever happen to me T 

Me aud my harmful love go by; 

But come to her waking, And her asleep. 

Powers of the height, rowers of the deep, 

And comfort her tho' I die t 131 



III 

Courage, poor heart of stone I 
I will not ask thee why 
Thou canst not understand 
That thou art left for ever alone; 
Courage, poor stupid heart of stone I 
Or if 1 ask thee why. 



214 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Care not thou to reply: 

She is but dead, and the time is at hand 

When thou ahalt more than die. 140 



IV 



O that *t were possible 

After long grief and pain 

To find the arms of my tme lore 

Round me once again I 

n 

When I was wont to meet her 

In the silent woody places 

By the home that gave me birth. 

We stood tranced in long embraces 

Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter 

Than anything on earth. iso 

III 

A shadow flits before me. 

Not thon, but like to thee. 

Ah, Christ, that it were possible 

For one short hour to see 

The souls we loved, that they might tell 

us 
What and where they be 1 



IV 

It leads me forth at evening. 

It lightly winds and steals 

In a cold white robe before me, 

When all my spirit reels 

At the shouts, the leagues of lightSy 

And the roaring of the wheels. 



160 



Half the night I waste in sighs. 
Half in dreams I sorrow after 
The delight of early skies; 
In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
For the meeting of the morrow, 
The delight of happy laughter, 
The delight of low replies. 

VI 

rr is a morning pure and sweet. 
And a dewy Rplendor falls 
On the little flower that dings 
To the turrets and the walls; 
T is a morning pure and sweet. 
And the light and shadow fleet. 



170 



She is walking in the meadow. 
And the woodland echo rings; 
In a moment we shall meet. 
She is singine in the meadow, 
And the nviJet at her feet 
Ripples on in light and shadow 
To the ballad that she sings. 

vn 

Do I hear her sing as of old. 
My bird with the shining head. 
My own dove with the tender eye ? 
But there rings on a sudden a passi 

cry. 
There is some one dying or dead. 
And a sullen thunder is roU'd; 
For a tumult shakes the ci^. 
And I wake, my dream is fled. 
In the shuddering dawn, behold. 
Without knowledge, without pity. 
By the curtains of my bed 
That abiding phantom cold 1 

vni 

Gret thee henoe, nor come again. 
Mix not memory with doubt, 
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
Pkss and cease to move about t 
'T is the blot upon the brain 
That wUl show itself without. 

IX 

Then I rise, the eave-drops fall, 
And the yellow vapors choke 
The great city sounding ¥ride; 
The day comes, a dull red ball 
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
Ou the misty river-tide. 



Thro' the hubbub of the market 

I steal, a wasted frame; 

It crosses here, it crosses there, 

Thro' all that crowd confused and I01 

The shadow still the same; 

And on my heavy eyelids 

My anguish hangs like shame. 

XI 

Alas for her that met me, 

That heard me softly call. 

Came glimmering thro' the laurels 

At the quiet evenfall, 

In the garden by the turrets 

Of the old manorial hall 1 



MAUD 



aiS 



xn 

^oM the hai^ spirit deMend 
from the realnis oi light and Bongf 
1b tke ehamber or the street, 
As she looks among the blest, 
ShosM I fear to gnet my friend 
Or to HIT ' Forgive the wrong,' 
Or to isk her, ' Take me, sweet. 
To ths regions of th j rest ' ? 

XIII 

Bst the hroad light gUres and beats. 

And tlie shadow flits and fleets 

Asd will not let me be; 

And I loathe the squares and streets, 

Asd the faoes that one meets, 

Hetiti with no love for me. 

Alvtjt I long to creep 

Isto lome stiB caTem deep, 

IWrs to weep, and weep, and weep 

U7 wbole soul oat to thee. 



«jo 



Desd, long dead, 

Uiif dead I 940 

Asd my heart is a handful of dnst, 

Asd the wheels go over my head, 

Asd my bones are shaken with pain. 

For into a shallow grave they are thmst, 

Oslv a yard beneatn the street, 

Asd the hoofs of the horses beat, beat, 

lib hoofs of the horses beat, 

fieat into my scalp and my brain, 

With never an ena to the stream of passing 
feet, 

Driviog, harrying, marrying, burying, >so 

CfauDor and ramble, and ringing and clat- 
ter; 

And here beneath it is all as bad, 

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is 
not so. 

To have no peace in the grave, is that not 
sad? 

Bat np and down and to and fro, 

Ever about me the dead men go; 

And then to hear a dead man chatter 

Is enoogh to drive one mad. 



n 



WreCAedett age, since Time began. 
They eoBDOt even bury a man; 



aSo 



And tho' we paid our tithes in the days 

that are gone, 
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read. 
It is that which makes us loud in the 

world of the dead; 
There is none that does his work, not one. 
A touch of their ofiice might have sufficed, 
But the churchmen fain would kill their 

church. 
As the churches have kill'd their Christ. 

Ill 

See, there is one of us sobbing, 
No limit to his distress; 269 

And another, a lord of all things, praying 
To his own great self, as I guess; 
And another, a statesman there, betraying 
His party-secret, fool, to the press; 
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing 
The case of his patient — all for what ? 
To tickle the nuunrot bom in an empty 
head. ^^ *^' 

And wheedle a world that loves him not, 
For it is but a world of the dead. 

IV 

Nothing but idiot gabble I 

For the prophecy given of old aSo 

And then not understood, 

Hra come to pass as foretold; 

Not let any man think for the public good. 

But babble, merely for babble. 

For I never whisper'd a private affair 

Within the hearing of cat or mouse, 

No, not to myself in the closet alone. 

But I heard it shouted at once from the 

top of the house ; 
Everything came to he known. 
Who told Aim we were there ? 990 



Not that gray old wolf, for he came not 

back 
From the wilderness, full of wolves, where 

he used to lie ; 
He has gather'd the bones for his overgrown 

whelp to crack — 
Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and 

die. 

VI 

Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip. 
Ana curse me the British vermin, the rat; 
I know not whether he came in the Hai»* 
over shipi 



3l6 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Bat I know that he lies and listens mute 
In an ancient mansion's crannies and holes. 
Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, 300 

Except that now we poison our bahes, poor 

souls! 
It is all used up for that. 

vn 

Tell him now: she is standing here at my 

head; 
Not beautiful now, not even kind; 
He may take her now; for she never speaks 

her mind. 
But is ever the one thing silent here. 
She if not q^us, as I divine; 
She comes from another stiller world of the 

dead. 
Stiller, not fairer than mine. 

vni 

But I know where a garden grows, 310 

Fairer than aught in the wond beside. 
All made up of the lily and rose 
That blow by night, when the season is 

good. 
To the sound of dancing music and flutes: 
It is only flowers, they had no fruits. 
And I idmost fear they are not roses, but 

blood; 
For the keeper was one, so full of pride, 
He linkt a dead man there to a spectral 

bride; 
For he, if he had not been a Sultan of 

brutes. 
Would he have that hole in his side ? 330 

IX 

But what will the old man say ? 

He laid a cruel snare in a pit 

To catch a friend of mine one stormy 

day; 
Tet now I could even weep to think of 

it; 
For what vrill the old man say 
When he comes to the second corpse in the 

pit? 



Friend, to be struck by the public foe. 
Then to strike him and lay him low. 
That were a public merit, far. 
Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin; 330 
But the red life spilt for a private blow — 
I swear to you, lawful and lawless war 
Are scarcely even akin. 



me, why have they not boried me 

enough? 
Is it kind to have made me a grave 

rough. 
Me, that was never a quiet sleeper ? 
Maybe still I am but half-dead; 
Then I cannot be wholly dumb. 

1 will cry to the steps above my bead 
And somebody, surely, some kind 

will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so utUe deeper. 



PART III 



My life has crept so long on a broken wis^ 
Thro' cells of madness, hannts of horrc^^ 

and fear. 
That I come to be grateful at last fora lii^^ 

tie thing. 
My mood is changed, for it fell at a tim0 

of year 
When the face of night is fair on the dewy 

downs. 
And the shining daffodil dies, and the 

Charioteer 
And starry Gemini hang like glorious 

crowns 
Over Orion's grave low down in the west. 
That like a silent lightning under the stars 
She seem'd to divide in a dream from a 

band of the blest, 10 

And spoke of a hope for the world in the 

coming wars — 
* And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble 

have rest. 
Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to 

Mars 
As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the 

Lion's breast. 

II 

And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a 

' dear delight 

To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon 

eyes so fair. 
That had been in a weary world my one 

thing bright; 
And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd 

my despair 



THE BROOK 



217 



Wben I thought that a war would arise in 

defence of the right, 
TWt 10 iron tyranny now should bend or 

oeftse, ao 

IVe glorj of mmnhood stand on his ancient 

hei^ 
Nor Britain's one sole Grod be the million- 
sire. 
Ko Bore shall oommeioe be all in all, and 

Ptece 
FSpe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, 
kid wsteh her hanrest ripen, her herd 

increase, 
K«r the eannoD-bidlet rust on a slothful 

shore, 
Aid the cobweb woven across the cannon's 

throat 
fiUl ahake its threaded tears in the wind 

no more. 

Ill 
iid MM months ran on and mmor of battle 

It IS tuo^ it is time, O passionate heart,' 
taid I, — 30 

For X cleaYed to a cause that I felt to be 
pare and true, — 

' It ia tmie, O passionate heart and morbid 

1"^ old hysterical mock-disease should 

die.' 
A*4 I stood on a giant deck and mixt mj 

breath 
^^ s lojal people shouting a batUe- 

erj, 
1^ I taw the dreary phantom arise and 

Far uito the North, and battle, and seas of 



IV 

b( it go or stay, so I wake to the higher 



Of s hmd that has lost for a little her lost 

of gold, 
Afld lore of a peace that was full of wrongs 

and shsjnes, 40 

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be 

told; 
And hail once more to the banner of battle 

niiion'dl 
no' many a light shall darken, and many 

shaD weep 
For those that are cmsh'd in the clash of 

laifiBg i*laiim| 



Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a 
giaut liar, 

And many a darkness into the light shall 
leap, 

And shine in the sudden making of splen- 
did names. 

And noble thought be freer under the 
sun. 

And the heart of a people beat with one 
desire; 

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is 
over and doue, 50 

And now by the side of the Black and the 
Baltic deep. 

And deathful-griuuing mouths of the for- 
tress, flames 

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart 
of fire. 



Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down 

like a wind. 
We have proved we have hearts in a causey 

we are noble still, 
And myself have awaked, as it seems, to 

the better mind. 
It is better to fight for the good than to 

rail at the ill; 
I have felt with my native land, I am one 

with my kind, 
I embrace the purpose of God, and the 

doom assign'd. 



THE BROOK 

' Here by thib brook we parted, I to the 

East 
And he for Italy — too late — too late: 
One whom the strong sons of the world de- 
spise; 
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and 

share. 
And mellow metres more than cent for 

cent. 
Nor could he understand how money breeds, 
Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could 

make 
The thing that is not as the thing that is. 
O, had he lived I In our sohoolbooks we 

say 
Of those that held their heads above the 

crowd, 10 

They flourish'd then or then; bot life ia 

him 



«i8 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Could scarce be amid to flourish, only 

toQch'd 
On such ft time as goes before the leaf, 
When all the wood stands in a mist of 

green. 
And nothinfi^ perfect. Yet the brook he 

loTed, 
For which, in branding summers of Ben- 
gal, 
Or even the sweet half-English Neilgherry 

air, 
I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, 
Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy 
To me that loved him; for ** O brook," he 

rhyme, 
^Whence come you?" and the brook — 
why not ? — replies: 

I come from haunts of coot and hem, 

I make a sodden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a Tidley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down. 

Or slip between the ridges. 
By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 30 

Till last by Philip^s farm I Bow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I g^ on for ever. 

* Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn 

out, 
Travelling to Naples. There is Damley 

bridge. 
It has more ivy; there the river; and there 
Stands Philip's farm where brook and river 

meet. 



I chatter over stony ways. 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With wQlow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brinmiing river. 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 



40 



* But Philip chatter'd more than braok 

or bird. 
Old Philip; all about the fields you eanglii 
His weary daylong chirping, like tlis 

dry 
High-elbow'd grigs that leap in somiiMC 



I wind about, and in and out. 

With here a blossom sailing. 
And here and there a lusty trout. 

And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel (• 

With many a silvery water-break 
Above the golden gravel. 

And draw them all along, and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come ana men may go. 

But I go on for ever. 

< O darling Katie Willows, his one child t 
A maiden of our century, yet most meek; 
A daughter of our meadows, yet not etmrmB^ 
Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand; 
Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hair jr 
In gloss and hue the chestnut, when tile 

shell 
Divides threefold to show the fruit within. 

'Sweet Katie, once I did her a good 

turn. 
Her and her far-ofp cousin and betrothed, 
James Willows, of one name and heart 

with her. 
For here I came, twenty years back — the 

week 
Before I parted with poor Edmund — crost 
By that old bridge which, half in ruins 

then, 79 

Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam 
Beyond it, where the waters marry — crost, 
Wbistling a random bar of Bonny Doon, 
And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The 

gate, 
Half-parted from a weak and scolding 

hinge, 
Stuck ; and he clamored from a casement, 

" Run," 
To Katie somewhere in the walks below, 
**Run, Katie!" Katie never ran; she 

moved 
To meet me, winding under woodbine bow- 
ers. 



THE BROOK 



219 



AGttk flotter'dt with her ejelids down, 89 
Fmk Bppla-blotsomy bluthiiig for a boon. 

*Wkt wai it? laai of Mntiment than 

Hid Kitie; not illiterate, nor of those 
Wko dabbling in the fount of fictive tears, 
Aid nned by mealy-mouth'd philanthro- 

Diet. 
DifQcte the Feeling from her mate the 

Deed. 

'Sbe told me. She and James had 

quaneird. Why 7 
Wkstcauie of quarrel? None, she said, 

no cause; 
hmm bad no cause: but when I prest the 

eanse, 
I letnt that James had flickering jealousies 
Wbieb snger'd her. Who anger'd Jatues ? 

I sakL 100 

Bet Katie snatch*d her eyes at once from 

mine, 
Asd sketching with her slender pointed 

foot 
SeoM ilnre like a wizard pentagram 
Oi gsiden graTel, let my query pass 
li^uni'd, m flushing silence, till I ask*d 
If JsBes were coming. ** Coming every 

^ SMwer'd, " ever longing to explain, 
Bst eitrmore her father came across 
^itb 10010 long-winded tale, and broke 

him short; 
M James departed Text with him and 
her.'* no 

Bsv eoold I help her ? ** Would I — was 

it wrong ?" — 
Chtpt hands and that petitionary grace 
Of tweet serenteen subdued me ere she 

spoke — 
"0, would I take her father for one hour, 
for one half-hour, and let him talk to me I " 
Aid OTen while she spoke, I saw where 



Made toward us, like a wader in the surf, 
Btyosd the brook, waist-deep in meadow- 
»t. 



* O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake f 
For in I went, and calKd old Philip out i»o 
To slww the farm. Full willingly he rone ; 
He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling 



Of his wbeat-aoburb, babbling as he went 



He praised his land, his horses, his ma- 
chines; 
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, 

his don; 
He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea- 
hens, 
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs 
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts. 
Then from the plaintive mother's teat he 

took 
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming 

each, 130 

And naming those, his friends, for whom 

they were; 
Then crost the common into Damley chase 
To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and 

fern 
Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail. 
Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech, 
He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said, 
"That was the four-year-old I sold tha 

Squire." 
And there he told a long, long-winded tale 
Of how the Squire had seen the colt at 

grass. 
And how it was the thing his daughter 

wish'd, 140 

And how he sent the bailiff to the farm 
To learn the price, and what the price he 

ask'd. 
And how the bailiff swore that he was mnd, 
But he stood firm, and so the matter 

hung; 
He gave them line; and five days after 

that 
He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece, 
Who then and there had offer'd something 

more. 
But he stood firm, and so the matter hung; 
He knew the man, the colt would fetch its 

price; 
He gave them line; and how by ehanoe at 

last — ISO 

It might be Mav or April, he forgot. 
The last of April or the first of May — 
He found the bailiff riding by the farm. 
And, talking from the point, he drew him in, 
And there ne mellow d all his heart with 

ale. 
Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand. 

< Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, 
he- 
Poor fellow, could he help it?-— recom* 
menced. 



330 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



And ran thro' all the ooltish chronicle, 159 
WUd WiU. Black Bess, Tantivy, TaUyho, 
Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest. 
Till, not to die a listener, I arose. 
And with me Philip, talking still; and so 
We tum'd oar foreheads from the falling 

sun, 
And following our own shadows thrice as 

long 
As when they follow'd us from Philip's 

door, 
Arrived, and found the son of sweet con- 
tent 
Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and aU things 
well. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, >7o 

I slide by hazel covers ; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Amoi^ my skimming swallows ; 

I make uie netted snnbeam danoe 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I mnrmnr under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses ; 
I linger by my shingly bars, >8o 

I loiter round my cresses ; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go^ 
But I go on for ever. 

Yes, men may come and go; and these are 

gone, 
All gone. My dearest brother, Edmnnd, 

sleeps. 
Not by the well-known stream and rustic 

spire. 
But unfamiliar Amo, and the dome 
Of Brunelleschi, sleeps in peace; and he. 
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of 

words 191 

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb; 
I scraped the lichen from it. Katie walks 
By the long wash of Australasian seas 
Far off, and holds her head to other 

stars. 
And breathes in April-aatomns. All are 

gone.' 



So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile 
In the long hedge, and rolling in his tsaaM. 
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er tks 

brook 
A tonsured head in middle age forion, aoe 
Mused, and was mute. On a sodden a isv 

breath 
Of tender air made tremble in the hedn 
The fragile bindweed - beUs and bnoaj 

rings; 
And he look'd up. There stood a miidflA 

near. 
Waiting to pass. In much amaxe he stared 
On eves a bashful azure, and on hair 
In gloss and hue the chestnut^ when 

sheU 
Divides threefold to show the fruit 

in; 
Then, wondering, ask*d her, ' Are yon 

the farm?' 
*Ye8,' answer'd she. 'Pray stay a little 

pardon me, 
What do they call you?' < Katie.' ' 

were strange. 
Whatsumame?' 'Willows.* •No!' • 

is my name.' 
' Indeed I ' and here he look'd so sdf«^ 

perplezt, 
That Katie laugh'd, and laughing Unsh'di 

till he 
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, 
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in bit 

dream. 
Then looking at her: 'Too happy, fresh 

and fair. 
Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best 

bloom, 
To be the ghost of one who bore your 

name 2 19 

About these meadows, twenty years ago.' 

' Have you not heard ? ' said Katie, * wa 
came back. 

We bought the farm we tenanted be- 
fore. 

Am I so like her ? so they said on board. 

Sir, if you knew her in her English days. 

My mother, as it seems you did, the 
days 

That most she loves to talk of, come with 
me. 

My brother James is in the harvest-field; 

But she — you will be welcome — O, ooma 
inr 



THE DAISY 



221 



THE DAISY 



WUTTEN AT EDINBURGH 

*AlMidtr dwiim of Um poet; mnsiiig in a 
■■kyiKrMt in Edinbargh over a daisy picked 
■ tM ** Snowy Spliigen '* gives him oppor- 
laitj for naiiT yariM sketches of Southern 
fiftf fill of eolor and spirit and movement * 
(Wsi^, * Alfred Lord Tennyson,' 1892). The 
Iti&ui jonniey was made in 1851, the year 
>Hir the poot*s marriage. 



LovB, what boars 
mine. 



were thine and 



la Iiods of palm and southern pine; 

In lands of palm, or orange-blossom, 
Of olive, aloe, and maise aim vinel 

H*bmt Roman strength Turbla show'd 
it niin, by the mountain road ; 

How like a gem, beneath, the citj 
^ Uttle Monaoo, basking, glow'dl 

5^^ richly down the rocky dell 
''™** torrent vineyard streaming fell lo 

,^^o meet the sun and sunny waters, 
'^^^t only heaved with a summer swell I 

^■lat slender campanili grew 
'^y hays, the peacock's neck in hue; 

Vrfaiere, here and there, on sandy beaches 
^ Biilky-bell'd amaryllis blew I 

RfMr yoong Colombns seem*d to rove, 
aet present in his natal g^ve. 
Now watching high on mountain cor- 
nice. 
And steering, now, from a purple core, ao 

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim; 
rdl, in a narrow street and dim, 

I stmy'd the wheels at Cogoletto, 
And dnnk, and loyally drank to him I 

Nor knew we well what pleased us most; 
Not the dipt palm of which they boast, 

Bat distant color, happy hamlet, 
A moalder'd citadel on the coast. 



Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen 
A light amid its olives green; 

Ohr olive-hoary cape in ocean; 
Or foej blossom in not ravine, 



lo 



Whese oleanders flush'd the bed 
Of silent torrents, gravel-epread; 

And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten 
Of ice, far up on a mountain heiS. 

We loved that hall, tho' white and cold. 
Those niched shapes of noble mould, 
A princely people's awful prinoes. 
The grave, severe Genovese of old. 40 

At Florence too what golden hours. 
In those long galleries, were ours; 

What drives about the fresh Casein^ 
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers! 

In bright vignettes, and each complete. 
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet, 

Or palace, how the city glitter'd, 
lliro' cypress avenues, at our feet I 

But when we crost the Lombard plain 
Remember what a plague of rain; 50 

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma, 
At Lodi rain, Fiaoenza rain. 

And stem and sad — so rare the smiles 
Of sunlight — look'd the Lombard piles; 

Porch-pillars on the lion resting, 
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. 

Milan, O the chanting quires. 
The giant windows' blazon'd fires, 

The height, the space, the gloom, the 
glory I 
A mount of marble, a hundred spires I 60 

1 climb'd the roofs at break of day; 
Son-smitten Alps before me lay. 

I stood among the silent statues. 
And statued pinnacles, mute as they. 

How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair, 
Was Monte Rosa, banging there 

A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys 
And snowy dells in a golden air I 

Remember how we came at last 

To Como; shower and storm and blast 70 

Had blown the lake beyond his limit, 
And all was flooded; and how we past 

From Como, when the light was gny, 
And in my head, for half the day. 

The rich Virgilian rustic measure 
Of « Lari Maxume,' all the way, 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Ad-burthen masio, kept, 

9 Lariano crept 

t fair port below the castle 

1 Theodolind, where we slept; 80 

J slept, bat watch'd awake 
B in the moonlight shake, 
oonlight touching o'er a terrace 
Agav^ above the lake. 

»re ? we took our last adieu, 
he snowy Spliigen drew; 
B we reach'd the highest summit 
a daisy, I gave it you. 

England then to me, 

it tells of Italy. 90 

» we two shall go no longer 
of summer across the sea, 

• life your arms enfold 
ying is a cry for gold; 
re to-night in this dark city, 
and weary, alone and cold, 

bho' cmsh'd to hard and dry, 
tling of another sky 
the little book you lent me, 
ra you tenderly laid it by; 



xoo 



^got the clouded Forth, 
[Q that saddens heaven and earth, 
'ter east, the misty summer 
' metropolis of the North. 

B to lull the throbs of pain, 

e to charm a vacant brain, 

Qce to dream you still beside 

^ fled to the South again. 



IE REV. F. D. MAURICE 

ben no graver cares employ, 
r, come and see your boy; 
Presence will be sun in winter, 
'he little one leap for joy. 

ig of that honest few 

B the Fiend himself his due, 

. eighty thousand college-councils 

< Anathema,' friend, at yon^ 



Should all our churchmen foam in spit^ 
At you, so careful of the rieht. 
Yet one lay-hearth would give you 
come — 
Take it and come — to the Isle of Wigb^; 



Where, far from noise and smolDe 

town, 
I watch the twilight falling brown 

All round a careless-order'd garden 
Close to the ridge of a noble down. 

Tou '11 have no scandal while you dine^ 
But honest talk and wholesome wine, 

And only hear the ma^ie gossip 
Garrulous under a roof of pine; 

For groves of pine on either hand. 
To break the blast of vrinter, stand. 

And further on, the hoary Channel 
Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand; 



Where, if below the milky steep 
Some ship of battle slowly creep. 

And on thro' zones of li^ht and shadoi^ 
Glimmer away to the lonely deep. 



We might discuss the Northern sin 
Which made a selfish war begin. 

Dispute the claim., amuige the 
chances, — 
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win; 

Or whether war's avenging rod 
Shall lash all Europe into blood; 

Till you should turn to dearer matteis, 
Dear to the man that is dear to Grod, — 

How best to help the slender store, 
How mend the awellings, of the poor. 

How gain in life, as ufe advances. 
Valor and charity more and more. 



Come, Maurice, oome; the lawn as yet 
Is hoar with rime or spon^-wet, 
But when the wreath of March haa bloa- 
som'd, — 
Crocus, anemone, violet, — 

Or later, pay one visit here, 

For those are few we hold as dear; 

Nor pav but one, but come for maojf 
Many and many a happy year. 

January, 1854. 




ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 



0, vtu. far him wIiom will ia strong I 
lie ralfpn, bat he will not suffer long; 
He loiters, but he ciuiDot luffer wrong. 
FttcbiB Dor movei th> loud world'i nuidom 

mMk. 
SonU Calani>t7*a hugest waves confound, 
VTboMama a praiuonl«rT of rock. 
Thai, eompMi'd routul with turbatent 

I» niddle ocMUt nieeti the •orglng ihock, 
Trnput-biiffeted, citadel-crowD'tT 



Bui ill for him who, iieltering not with 

liwe, 
C<.'fntpli the itieiiEth of hesT«n- descend pd 
^iU. 
tr weaker grvw» thro' ncted crime, 
' ' venial fnull, 
resting still t 
hoen foolAteps halt, 
inr in iinineasumble sAod, 
"■<> oera weary sultry Und, 
'** Wtieath a blaiiiig vault, 
^f^ ID a wrinkle of the nioiutroas hill, 
*** citj (parklei like a grain of talt 

ObE ON THE DEATH OF THE 
DUKE OF WELLINGTON 



ltund«r*f>nt 

iriaioa Iwfm it was raprintail in 1853, 
m furthar ntanchpd Iwfore it apprirsd 



iW - Od* on (hr Ihrsth o( the Dnhe of W-1- 
LapoB." hr hiu KBrHl to Ijrie heiifbla to whirh, 
■nl>K|iB.aTsn Pindar HTer attained. Tb< tuU- 
kf af th* beU. tha aolemn and slow fnaaial 
MMh, tha qaiek nah of battle, and the choral 
»ktm% of the eathadral aU anceeed one another. 
mU tha ran* daks aad iwella. ria« aod falls 
•• araiT altantadoo with aqnal power.' 

BCBT tha Great Dukt 
With M vmpiro'a lammtfttiotii 



I^et III burv the Great Duke 

To the iioise of tht' mourning of a mighty 



Monming when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 
And sorrow darkeus hamlvt and haU. 



Where shall we lay the nitut whom we d»- 



Here, in atreaniing I^ndon's central roar. 
Let the Round of those bo wrougliL for, m 
And th» feet of those lie fought fur. 
Echo round his boats for evermore. 



Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, 

As fits an universal woe, 

Let the long, long proeesaion go. 

And let the sorrowme crowd about it grow. 

And let the nionriifuT martial music iHow; 

The last great Englishman ia low. 

Mourn, for to q« he seems the laat, 19 

Remembering all his greatness in the past. 
No more in soldirr fuabion will he greet 
With lifted hBiid the gnier in the ttreet. 
O friends, our chief slnte^^oracle is mate f 
Mourn tor the man uf loog-eudoring blood, 
The statcsmsn-wnrrioT, moderate, resolute, 
Whole in himself, n common good. 
Mourn for the man of amplest inBuenoe, 
Yet clearest of ambitious crime, 
Onr grealeat jet with least preteooe, 
Great in council and rrreat in war, to 

Foremost captain of bis time. 
Rich in saving coniuion-nrnae. 
And, ai the greatest only are. 
In hi* simplicity itublime. 
O good gray head which all men knew, 
O voice from which their omens all men 

O iron nerve to true occasion tnie, 

O fallen at length that tower of strength 

Which stood fourHtquare to all the winds 

that blew I 
Snch was be whom we deplore. «>, 

The long self-<ncriflce of life ia o'er. 
The great World- victor's viotar will ba 



over and done. 

ir thuki to tha Gim^ 



a34 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



England, for thy son. 

Let tlie bell be toll'd. 

Bender thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mould. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and riTcr, so 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be toll'd, 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds. 

Bright let it be with its blaxon'd deeds, 

Dark in its f aneral fold. 

Let the bell be toll'd. 

And a deeper knell iu the heart be knoll'd ; 

And the soand of the sorrowing anthem 

roU'd 60 

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; 
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss; 
He knew their voices of old. 
For many a time in many a clime 
His captain's-ear has heard them boom 
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 
When he with those deep voices wrought, 
Guarding realms and kings from shame. 
With those deep voices our dead captain 

taught 
The tyrant, and asserts his claim 70 

Li that dread sound to the great name 
Which he has worn so pure of blame, 
Li praise and in dispraise the same, 
A man of well-attemper'd frame. 
O civic muse, to such a name. 
To such a name for ages long, 
To such a name. 

Preserve a broad approach of fame. 
And ever-echoing avenues of song I 

VI 

*Who is be that cometh, like an honor*d 

guest, 80 

With banner and ivith music, with soldier 

and with priest, 
With a nation weeping, and breaking on 

my rest ? * — 
Mighty Seaman, this is he 
Was great by land as thou by sea. 
Thine island loves thee well, thou fiunous 

man. 
The greatest sailor since our world began. 
Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
To thee the greatest soldier comes; 
For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 90 

Hia foes were thine; he kept us free; 



O, give him welcome, this is he 
Worthy of our gorgeous rites. 
And worthy to be biid by thee; 
For this is England's greatest son^ 
He that gain'd a hundred fights. 
Nor ever lost an English gun; 
This is he that far away 
Against the myriads of Assaye 
Clash*d with his fiery few and won; 
And underneath another sun. 
Warring on a later day. 
Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
The treble works, the vast designs 
Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 
Where he greatly stood at bay. 
Whence he issued forth anew. 
And ever great and greater grew, 
Beating from the wasted vines 
Back to France her banded swarms. 
Back to France ¥rith countless blows. 
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
FoUow'd up in valley and glen 
With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
Roll of cannon and clash of arms. 
And England pouring on her foes. 
Such a war had such a close. 
Again their ravening eagle rose 
In anger, wheel'd on Europe - shadow 

wings. 
And barking for the thrones of kings; 
Till one that sought but Duty's iron or 
On that loud Sabbath shook the spc 

down; 
A day of onsets of despair f 
Dash'd on every rocky square, 
Their surging charges foam'd themse 

away; 
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; 
Thro' the long-tormented air 
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
And down we swept and charged and o 

threw. 
So great a soldier taught us there 
What long-enduring hearts could do 
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo 1 
Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
And pure as he from taint of craven gu 
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
If aught of things that here befall 
Touch a spirit among things divine. 
If love of country move thee there at b 
Be glad, because his bones are laid 

thinel 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF WELLINGTON 



"5 



iid tliio* th0 eentmics let a people's Yoioe 
h foU •eclaim, 
A people's Toiee, 

1W proof and eeho of all lnunan fame, 
A people's Toioey when thej rejoice 
At eifie revel and pomp and game, 
AttMt Uieir great eommanders oladm 
With honoTy noiiort honors honor to him, 
£tml honor to Ids name. 



150 



VII 



A peoele's Totoe I we are a people yet 
Tbo' til men else their nobler dreams f or- 

Confuted hj brainless mobs and lawless 

Powers, 
Tkask Him who isled ns here, and roughl j 

let 
Hk Britoo in blown seas and storming 

showers, 
We ksTe a Toice with which to paj the 

debt 
Of boondless lore and reyerenoe and regret 
To those great men who f onght, and kept 

it ours. 
Aid keep it ours, O God, from brute oon- 

tioll 
Ststesmen, guard ns, guard the e je, the 

soul 160 

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, 
Asd it?e the one true seed of freedom 



Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, 
Thtt lober freedom out of which there 

springs 
w hjH passion for our temperate kingn I 
For, ttTing that, ye help to sryc mankind 
Till poblic wrong be crumbled into dust, 
Asd drill the raw world for the march of 

mind, 
im crowds at length be sane and crowns 

be just. 
Het wink no move in slothful orertmst. 170 
Remember him who led jour hosts; 
He bade yon guard the sacred coasts. 
Toar cannons moulder on the seaward 

wall; 
His Toiee is silent in your council-hall 
For erer; and whatever tempests lour 
For erer silent; CTcn if they broke 
In thunder, silent; yet remember all 
He spoke among yon, and the Blan who 

spoke; 
Wko nerer sold the truth to serre the 

hoOTf 179 



Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Thro' either babbling world of high and 

low; 
Whoso life was work, whose language 

rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life; 
Who never spoke against a foe; 
Whose eighty winters freexe with one 

rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the 

right. 
Truth -teller was our England's Alfred 

named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke; 
Whatever record leap to light 190 

He never shall be shamed. 

vni 

Lo I the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Follow'aby the brave of other lands. 
He, on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn 
Tea, let all good things await 
Him who cares not to be great 
But as he saves or serves the state. aoo 

Not once or tvrice in our rough island- 
story 
The path of duty was the way to glory. 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey doses. 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples, which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 
Not once or twice in our fair island-story 
The path of duty was the way to glorv. a 10 
He, that ever following her commands, 
On with toil of heart and knees and hands. 
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 

won 
His path upward, and prevail'd. 
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 

scaled 
Are close upon the shining table-lands 
To which our God Himself is moon and 

sun. 
Such was he: his work is done. 
But while the races of mankind endnre 
Let his great example stand mo 

Colossal, seen of every land. 
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 
pure; 



S26 



MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS 



Till in all landB and thro' all hiunan story 
The path of duty be the way to g^ory. 
And let the land whose hearths he sayed 

from shame 
For many and many an age proclaim 
At civic reyel and pomp and game, 
And when the long-illumined cities flame, 
Their eyer-loyal iron leader's fame. 
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
Eternal honor to his name. 



ni 



IX 



Peace, his triumph will be sung 

By some yet nnmoulded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace, it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung. 

O peace, it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and 

brain 
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 
Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 141 

More than is of man's degree 
Must be with us, watching here 
At this, our great solenmity. 
Whom we see not we revere; 
We revere, and we refrain 
From talk of battles loud and vain. 
And brawling memories all too free 
For such a wise humility 
As befits a solemn fane: 250 

We revere, and while we hear 
The tides of Music's golden sea 
Setting toward eternity. 
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we. 
Until we doubt not that for one so true 
There must be other nobler work to do 
Than when he fought at Waterloo, 
And Victor he must ever be. 
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
And break the shore, and evermore 260 

Make and break, and work their will, 
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 

roll 
Round us, each with different powers. 
And other forms of life than ours. 
What know we greater than the soul ? 
On God and Godlike men we build our 

trust. 
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's 

ears; 
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs 

and tears; 



The black earth yawns; the i 

pears; 
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; 
He is eone who seem'd so grei 
Gone, but nothing can bereave 
Of the force he made his own 
Being here, and we believe hie 
Something far advanced in Stii 
And that he wears a truer croi 
Than any wreath that man cat 
Speak no more of his renown. 
Lay your earthly fancies down 
And in the vast cathedral leav* 
God accept him, Christ receive 
1852. 



THE CHARGE OF TH 
BRIGADE 

For the snooessive Tcrsions of 
the Notes. 



Half a league, half a It 
Half a league onward. 
All in the valley of Dea 

Rode the six hundred 
* Forward the Light Bri 
Charge for the guns I * 
Into the valley of Deatl 

Rode the six hundred 

II 

« Forward, the Light Br 
Was there a man disma 
Not tho' the soldier knc 

Some one had blunde 
Theirs not to make repl 
Theirs not to reason wh 
Theirs but to do and di< 
Into the valley of Deatl 

Rode the six hundred 

III 

Cannon to right of then 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of then 

Volley'd and thunder 
Storm'd at with shot an 
Boldly they rode and w 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of hell 

Rode the six hundred 



ENOCH ARDEN 



92} 



IV 

Fhah'd aU their ubret bftre, 
Flath'd as tbe j tam'd in air 
Sabring the gannen there, 
Cbarging an arm j, while 

All the worid wonder *d. 
Flanged in the batterj-emoke 
Bight thro' the line they broke; 
Coeeaek and Roesian 
Beel'd from the sabre-ttroke 

Shatter'd and snnder'd. 
Then they rode back, but not. 

Not the six hundred. 



Cannon to riffht of them, 
Canaon to left of them, 



Cannon behind them 

Volley'd and tbander'd; 
Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell. 
They that had fought so well 
Came thro' the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of hell. 
All that was left of them. 
Left of six hundred. 

VI 

When can their glory fade ? 
O the wild charge they made I 

All the worid wonder'd. 
Honor the charge they made I 
Honor the Light Brig^e, 

Noble six hundred ! 



ENOCH ARDEN 



Ml 



AND OTHER POEMS 

the title of the Tolome, published in 1864, containin(c» bssidM ' Enoch Arden,* the 
^^ ^riigpoems : * Aylroer's Field,' ' Sea Dreams/ * Ode saui^ at Opening: of International Bxhi- 
^f^^o^' *TlM Grandmother/ * The Northern Farmer (Old 8tvle),' ' Tithonus,' ' The Voyage/ * In 
^^ VslWy of Canterotx, ' The Flower/ ' RequieMuit,^ ' The'SMlor Boy/ ' The Islet,' * the Ring- 
r^ *^ <afterwardi sappreaed), * Welcome to Alexandra,' * Dedication/ * Attempts at Classic Metres 
* ^^msatity,* and * Specimen of Blank VerM TransUtion of the Iliad.' The list given under the 
^^« of this Tolume in the English editions is misleading, as it includes only two of the abore 

two (* The Brook * and * Luoretins ') published in other Tolumes. 

Long lines of diif breaking have left a 

chasm; 
And in the chasm are foam and yellow 

sands; 
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf 
In cluster; then a moulder*d church; and 

higher 
A long street climbs to one tall-tower *d 

mill; 
And high in hearen behind it a gray down 
With Danish barrows; and a hazel-wood. 
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes 
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down. 
Here on this beach a hundred years ago, m 
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, 
The prettiest little damsel in the port, 
And rhilip Ray, the miller's only son. 
And Enoch Araen, a rough sailor's lad 
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd 
Among the waste and lumber of the shore. 
Hard ooila of cordage, iwartby flshing-Mt% 



ENOCH ARDEN 

*Ebech Arden' has been one of the most 
>SMlar of the poet's works, not only in Eag- 
^m spnsking conntries, hut also on the conti- 
Unt of Enrope. Mr. Eugene Paraons, in his 
ftt^phlet on * Tenny8on*8 Life and Poetry ' (2d 
•mon, IfW), enumerates no less than twentr- 
foar tmnalaHoDs : nine in German, two in Dutch, 
mt in Danish, one in Bohemian, ein^ht in French, 
mt in Spanish, and two in Italian. There is 
abo a Ladn Tersian by Blr. W. Selwyn (Loo- 
don, 1807). 

Aeeofding to the ' British Quarterly Reriew ' 
for Oetober, 1880, the utories off hoth ' Enoch 
Ardon ' and * Aylmer*A Field ' were ' told by a 
friend to the Poet, who, struck hy their apti- 
tade for renineation, requested to haTe them 
at loagth in writing. When they were thus 
supplied, the poetic rersions were made as we 
mam have them.' This is ooofirmed by the 
' (toL iL p. 7), where we leara that 
Woolaer the soulptoc. 



228 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Ancbon of rusty flake, and boats apdrawn; 
And built tbeir castles of dissolring sand 
To watcb them orerflow'd, or following up 
And flying the white breaker, daily left ax 
The little footprint daily wash'd away. 

A narrow care ran in beneath the cliff; 
In this the children play'd at keeping 

house. 
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 
While Annie still was mbtress; but at 

times 
Enoch would hold possession for a week: 
' This is my house and this my little wife.' 
'Biine too,' said Philip; 'turn and turn 

about; ' 
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger- 
made 30 
Was master. Then would Philip, his blue 

eyes 
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears. 
Shriek out, ' I hate you, Enoch,' and at this 
The little wife would weep for company, 
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake. 
And say she would be uttle wife to both. 

But when the dawn of rosy childhood 
past. 
And the new warmth of life's ascending 

sun 
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart 
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his 
love, 40 

But Philip loved in silence; and the girl 
Seem*d kmder unto Philip than to him; 
But she loved Enoch, tho' she knew it not. 
And would if ask'd deny it. Elnoch set 
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 
To hoard all savings to the uttermost. 
To purchase his own boat, and make a 

home 
For Annie; and so prosper'd that at last 
A luckier or a bolder fLsherman, 
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50 
For leagues along that breaker - beaten 

coast 
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a 

year 
On board a merchantman, and made him- 
self 
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a 

life 
From the dread sweep of the down-stream- 
ing seas. 
And all men look'd upon him favorably. 



And ere he touch'd his one-and-twenftisA 

May 
He purchased his own boaty and mad* a 

home 
For Annie, neat and nestlike, halfway op 
The narrow street that clambered towaid 

the milL te 

Then, on a golden autumn eventide^ 
The younger people making holiday. 
With bag and sack and basket^ great lal 

small. 
Went nutting to the haaels. Philip stay'd*-^ 
His father lying sick and needing him — 
An hour behind; but as he dimbxl the hill, 
Just where the prone edge of the wood be*- 

gan 
To feather toward the hollow, saw the paii^ 
Enoch and Annie, sitting haud-in-hand. 
His large gray eyes and weatheivbeuea 
face 70 

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire. 
That bum'd as on an altar. Philip lodc'd, 
And in their eyes and faces read lus doimi; 
Then, as their faces drew together, groan'd, 
And slipt aside, and like a wonndea life 
Crept down into the hollows of the wood; 
There, while the rest were loud in merry- 
making. 
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and 

past 
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. 

So these were wed, and merrily rang the 

bells, 80 

And merrily ran the years, seven happy 

years. 
Seven happy years of health and compe- 
tence, 
And mutual love and honorable toil. 
With children, first a daughter. In him 

woke. 
With his first babe's first cry, the noUa 

wish 
To save all earnings to the uttermost. 
And g^ve his child a better bringing-up 
Than his had been, or hers; a wish re- 

new'd. 
When two years after came a boy to be 
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90 

While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, 
Or often journeying landward; for in truth 
Enoch's white horse, and Enoch's ocean- 
spoil 
In ocean-smelling osier, and his &oe, 



ENOCH ARDEN 



229 



Ingli- reddened with a thoasand wiuter 

pd«, 
Kok calf to the iiiarkei-<nroM were known, 
Bot IB Uie leaf J lanes behind the down, 
Firiithe portal- warding lion- whelp 
Aid pmeodc jew-tree of the lonely Hall, 
WboM Fiidaj fare was Enoch's minister- 

iof. 



100 



Thtm same a change, as all things human 
diange* 
Tci niles to northward of the narrow port 
Opes'd a larger haven. Thither used 
Eaoeh at times to go by land or sea; 
lid onee when there, and clambering on a 



Ii btrbor, br mischance he slipt and fell. 
A limb was broken when they lifted him; 
And while he lay recovering there, his wife 
Bore him another son, a sickly one. 
Asotber hand crept too across his trade no 
Tikbf her bread and theirs; and on him 

fell, 
Ahho^ a grave and staid God-fearing man, 
Tit ljiii£ thus inactive, doubt and gloom. 
Bt Msmd, as in a nightmare of the night, 
To Mi his children leading evermore 
Low Buierable lives of hand-to-month, 
Asd ber he loved a beggar. Then he pray'd, 
*SsTe them from this, whatever comes 

tome.' 
Asd while he pray*d, the master of that 

ship 
Ewfc »»d aerred in, bearing hU mi.- 

enance, 120 

CsMi, for he knew the man and valued 

him, 
Bcportiag of his vesiiel China-bound, 
Asd wanting yet a boatswain. Would 

hego? 
Iiaw yet were many weeks before she 

sail'd, 
U'd from this port Would Enoch have 

the place? 
Aid Enoch all at once assented to it, 
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer. 

So DOW that shadow of mischance ap- 

pear'd 
Xo graver than as when some little cloud 
Cats off the fiery highway of the sun, 130 
Aad isles a light in the offing. Yet the 

wrife — 
Whea he was gone — the children — what 

todoT 



Then Enoch lay long - pondering on his 

plans: 
To sell the boat — and yet he loved her 

well — 
How many a rough sea had he weather*d 

in her ! 
He knew her, as a horseman knows his 

horse — 
And yet to sell her — then with what she 

brought 
Buy goods and stores — set Annie forth in 

trade 
With all that seamen needed or their 

wives — 
So might she keep the house while he was 

g^ne. 140 

Should he not. trade himself out yonder? 

go 
This voyage more than once ? yea, twice 

or uirice — 

As oft as needed — last, returning rich. 

Become the master of a larger craft, 

With fuller profits lead an easier life. 

Have all his pretty young ones educated, 

And pass his days in peace among his own. 

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all; 
Then moving homeward came on Annie 

pale. 
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-bom. 150 
Forwa^ she started with a happy cry. 
And laid the feeble iufant in Ins arms; 
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his 

limbs. 
Appraised his weight and fondled father- 
like. 
But had no heart to break bis purposes 
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke. 

Then first since Enoch's golden ring had 
girt 
Her finger, Annie fought against his will; 
Yet not with brawling opposition she, 
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160 
Many a sad kiss by day, by night, renewed — 
Sure that all evil would come out of it — 
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared 
For her or his dear children, not to go. 
He not for his own self caring, but her. 
Her and her children, let her plead in vain; 
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro'. 

* 

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend. 
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set 
hand 



23© 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



To fit their little streetward sitting-room 
With shelf and comer for the goods and 

stores. X71 

So all day long till Enoch's last at home, 
Shaking their pretty cahin, hammer and 

axe, 
Anger and saw, while Annie seem'd to 

hear 
Her own death-soa£Fold raising, shnll'd and 

rangf 
Till this was ended, and his carefal hand, — 

The space was narrow, — having order'd 

aU 
Almost as neat and close as Nature packs 
Her hlossom or her seedling, paused; and 

he, 
Who needs wonld work for Annie to the 

last, 180 

Ascending tired, heavily slept till mom. 

And Enoch fauoed this morning of fare- 
well 
Brightly and holdly. All his Annie's fears. 
Save as his Annie's, were a laughter to 

him. 
Yet Enoch as a hrave Grod-fearing man 
Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery 
Where €rod-in-man is one with man-m- 

God, 
Pray'd for a hlessing on his wife and hahes. 
Whatever came to him; and then be said: 
' Annie, this voyage hy the grace of God 
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. 191 
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me. 
For I '11 be back, my girl, before you 

know it; ' 
Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, *and 

he, 
This pretty, puny, weakly little one, — 
Nay — for I love him all the better for 

it- 
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees 
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, 
And make him merry, when I come home 

again. iqq 

Come, Annie, come, cheer up before I go.' 

Him running on thus hopefully she 

heard. 
And almost hoped herself; but when he 

tum'd 
The current of his talk to graver things 
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing 
On providence and trust in heaven, she 

heard« 



Heard and not heard him; as tiM TiDigs 

girl. 
Who sets her pitcher ondemeatii tts 

spring. 
Musing on him that used to fill it for hei^ 
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow. 

At lenp[th she spoke: * O Enoch, 70a an 
wise; »o 

And yet for all yoor wisdom well know I 
That I shall look upon your fiioe no more.* 

'Well, then,' said Enoch, «! shall look 

on yours. 
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here ' — 
He named the day; — * get yon a aeamsu*'* 

glass. 
Spy out my face, and lan^ at all yo^ff 

fears.' 

But when the last of those last moaieiits 

came: 
' Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted^ 
Look to the babes, and till I come again 
Keep everything shipshape, for I mne^ 

go. «J» 

And fear no more for me; or if yon fear. 
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor 

holds. 
Is He not yonder in those nttermost 
Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these. 
Can I go from Him ? and the sea is His, 
The sea is His; He made it.' 

Enoch rose. 
Cast his strong arms about his drooping 

wife. 
And kiss'd his wonder-stricken little ones; 
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 
After a night of feverous wakefulness, ay> 
When Annie would have raised him Enoch 

said, 
' Wake him not, let him sleep; how should 

the child 
Remember this ? ' and kiss'd him in his 

cot. 
But Annie from her baby's forehead dipt 
A tiny curl, and gave it; this he kept 
Thro' all his future, but now hastily caught 
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his 

way. 

She, when the day that Enoch mention'd 
came, 
Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain. Perhape 



ENOCH ARDEN 



»3i 



Shi eMld not fix the glass to suit her eye; 
Mtps Iwr eye was aim, hand trexnuloas; 
Ski nw htm not, and while he stood on 
deek 243 

WsfiBg^ the moment and the Tessel past 

Etmi to the last dip of the Tanishing sail 
Sbi wsteh'd it, and departed weeping for 

him; 
Thes, tho' she moum'd his absence as his 

grave, 
8tt her sad will no less to chime with his, 
Bit throre not in her trade, not being bred 
To bsiter, nor compensating the want 
Bf ihrewdness, neither capable of lies, 250 
itor nking OTermiich and taking less, 
Asd idll foreboding ' what would Enoch 

For Bore than once, in days of difficulty 
Asd pressure, had she sold her wares for 

Sho hul'd and sadden'd knowing it; and 

thus, 
ujvetsBt of that news which never came, 
Giii'd for her own a scanty sustenance, 
Asd liTed a life of silent melancholy. 

Nov the third child was sickly-bom and 
crew a6o 

Tet aehlier, tho* the mother cared for it 
With sU a mother's care ; nevertheless, 
Whsther her business often calPd her 

from it, 
^ thro' the want of what it needed most. 
Or Bsaos to pay the voice who best could 

tell 
Whit most it needed — howsoe'er it was, 
After a lingering, — ere she was aware, — 
like the eaged bird escaping suddenly, 
1W little innocent soul flitted away. 

la that same week when Annie buried 

it, azo 

Klip's tme heart, which hunger'd for her 

peace,— 
fibee Enoch left he had not look'd upon 

her, — 
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long. 
'Snrely,' said Philip, ' I may see her now. 
May be some little comfort;' therefore 

went, 
thro* the solitary room in front, 
for a moment at an inner door, 



Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening, 
Enter'd, but Annie, seated with her grief. 
Fresh from the burial of her little one, 2&> 
Cared not to look on any human faoe. 
But turu'd her own toward the wall and 

wept. 
Then Philip standing up said falteringly, 
' Annie, I came to ask a favor of you/ 






He spoke; the passion in her moan'd re- 
ply, 
' Favor from one so sad and so forlorn 
As I am f ' half abash'd him ; yet unask'd, 
His bashf ulness and tenderness at war. 
He set himself beside her, saying to her: 

'I came to speak to you of what he 
wish'd, 990 

Enoch, your husband. I have ever said 
You chose the best among ns — a strong 

man; 
For where be fixt his heart he set his hand 
To do the thing he will'd, and bore it thro*. 
And wherefore did he go this weary way. 
And leave you lonely ? not to see the 

world — 
For pleasure ? — nay, but for the where- 
withal 
To give his babes a better bringing up 
Than bin had been, or yours; that ¥ras his 

wish. 
Ana if he come again, vezt will he be 300 
To find the precious morning hours were 

lost. 
And it would vex him even in his grave. 
If he could know his babes were running 

wild 
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, 

now — 
Have we not known each other all our 

lives ? 
I do beseech yon by the love yon bear 
Him and his children not to say me nay — 
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again 
Why then he shall repay me — if yon will, 
Annie — for I am rich and well-to-do. jio 
Now let me put the bov and girl to school; 
This is the favor that I came to ask.' 

Then Annie with her brows against the 

wall 
Answer'd, ' I cannot look you in the faoe; 
I seem so foolitth and so broken down* 
When von came in my sorrow broke me 

down; 



^$2 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



And now I think your kindiHWH breaks me 

down. 
Bat Enoch lives; that is borne in on me; 
He will repay you. Money can be repaid, 
Not kindness such as yours.' 

And Philip ask'd, 
* Then yon will let me, Annie ? ' 

There she tnm'dy 
She rose, and fixt her swimming eyes upon 
him, $22 

And dwelt a moment on his kindly fsoe. 
Then calling down a blessing on his head 
Caught at Us hand, and wrung it passion- 
ately. 
And past into the little garth beyond. 
So lifted np in spirit he moved away. 

Then Philip put the boy and girl to 

school. 
And bought them needful books, and every 

way, 
Like one who does his duty by his own, 330 
Made himself theirs; and tho' for Annie's 

sake. 
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port. 
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish. 
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he 

sent 
Gifts by the children, garden -herbs and 

fruit, 
The late and early roses from his wall. 
Or conies from the down, and now and 

then, 
With some pretext of fineness in the meal 
To save the offence of charitable, flour 
From his tall mill that whistled on the 

waste. 340 

But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind ; 
Scarce could the woman, when he came 

upou her. 
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude 
Light on a broken word to thank him with. 
But Philip was her children's all-in-all; 
From distant comers of the street they ran 
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 
Lords of his house and of his mill were 

they, 
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs 
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with 

him 3SO 

And caU'd him Father Philip. Philii^ 

gain'd 



As Enoch lost, for Enoch seein'd to tkaa 
Uncertain as a vision or a dream. 
Faint as a figure seen in early dawa 
Down at the far end of an avenue, 
Groing we know not where; and so 

years. 
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land^ 
Fled forward, and no news of Enoeh 



It chanced one evening Annie'i childnft. 

long'd 
To go with others nutting to the wood, jte 
And Annie would go iritn them; then tliey 

begg'd 
For Father Philip, as they oall'd him, toa 
Him, like the working be« in blossom-dost, 
Blanch'd with his imll, they found; and 

saying to him, 
< Come with us. Father Philip,* he denied; 
But when the children pluck'd at him to go^ 
He laugh'd, and yielded readily to thor 

wish. 
For ¥ra8 not Annie with them ? and they 

wenL 

Bnt after scaling half the weary down. 
Just where the prone edge of the wood 

began 330 

To feather toward the hollow, all her fores 
FaU'd her; and wghing, ' Let me «.t,' she 

said. 
So Philip rested with her well-eootent; 
While ail the younger ones with julnlant 

cries 
Broke from their elders, and tnmultnonsly 
Down thro' the whitening hazeb made a 

plunge 
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or 

broke 
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away 
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other 
And calling, here and there, about the 

wood. 380 

But Philip sitting at her side forgot 
Her presence, and remember'd one dark 

hour 
Here in this wood, when like a wounded 

life 
He crept into the shadow. At last he said. 
Lifting his honest forehead, ' Listen, Annie, 
How merry they are down yonder in the 

wood. 
Tired, Annie ? ' for she did not speak m 

word. 



ENOCH ARDEN 



«33 



'TM t * but her face had Adieu upon her 



it whieh, as with a kind of anger in him, 
•Iht ihip waa loet,' he laid, 'the ship was 

iosti 390 

Ko more of that ! why should yon kill 

Tonrself 
iii Bttke them orphans quite ? ' And 

Annie said, 
'I tkaght not of it; but — I know not 

why — 
TWtr Toioes nuike me feel so solitary.' 

IWb Philip eoming somewhat closer 

fpoke: 
'Asnie, there is a thing upon my mind, 
lad it kss been upon my mind so long 
Ikt, tbo* I know not when it first came 

there^ 
Ibow that it will out at Ust. O Annie, 
It ii bejond all hope, against all chance, 
Tbit bo who left you ten long years ago 
Shoold ftill he living; well, Uien — let me 

tpeak. 40a 

I giiero to see you poor and wanting help; 
I MBsot help you as I wisl^ to do 
Uslen — they say that women are so 

qnick — 
Bnli^ yon know what I would haTe you 

know — 
I wiih you for my wife. I fain would 

prove 
A (atlier to yoor children; I do think 
TWy love me as a father; I am sure 
TWt I lore them as if they were mine 

own; 410 

Aid I believe, if you were fast my wife, 
TWt after all these sad uncertain years 
We might be still as happyas God grants 
To say of his ereatures. Think upon it; 
Fir I am well-to-do — no kin, no care, 
Vo borthen^ save my care for yon and 

yoors. 
Aid we have known each other all our lives, 
Aad I have loved you longer than you 

know.* 

Then answer'd Annie — tenderly she 
spoke: 

' Ton have been as God's good angel in onr 
honse. 4*0 

God bless yon for it, God reward you for it, 

lUip, with something happier than my- 
self. 

On oma love twiee ? oan yoo be ever loved 



As Enoch was ? what is it that you ask ? ' 
' I am content,' he answer'd, ' to be loved 
A little after Enoch.' * O,' she cried, 
Scared as it were, 'dear Philip, wait a 

while. 
If Enoch comes — but Enoch will not 

come — 
Tet wait a year, a year is not so long. 
Surely I shall be wiser in a year. 410 

O, wait a little ! ' Philip sadly said, 

< Annie, as I have waited all my life 

I well may wait a little.' * Nay,' she eried, 

< I am bound: you have my promise — in a 

year. 
Will yon not bide your year as I bide 

mine ? ' 
And Philip answer'd, ' I will bide my year.' 

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing 

up 
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day 
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead; 
Then, fearing night and chill for Annie, 

rose 44» 

And sent his voice beneath him thro' the 

wood. 
Up came the children laden with their 

spoil; 
Then all descended to the port, and there 
At Annie's door he paused and gave his 

hand, 
Saying gently, ' Annie, when I spoke to yon. 
That was vour hour of weakness. I was 

wrong, 
I am always bound to you, but you are 

free.' 
Then Anuie weeping answer'd, *I am 

bound.' 

She spoke; and in one moment as it were, 
While yet she went about her household 

ways, 49i 

Even as she dwelt upon his latest words, 
Th*t be had loved her longer thu. .be 

knew. 
That autumn into autumn flash'd again. 
And there he stood once more beu>re her 

face, 
Claiming her promise. 'Is it a year ? ' 

she ask'd. 

< Yes, if the nuts,' he said, * be ripe again; 
Come out and see.' But she — she pnt him 

off — 
So much to look to — sneh a ohaiife-— a 
month -^ 



434 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER lOEMS 



GiTe her a month — she knew that she 

bound — 
A month — no more. Then Philip with his 

eyes 460 

Full of that lifelong hanger, and his voice 
Shaking a little like a drunkard's hand, 
' Take your own time, Annie, take your own 

time.' 
And Annie oould have wept for pity of him; 
And yet she held him on delayingly 
With many a scarce-believable excuse, 
Trjring his truth and his long-sufferance, 
Till half another year had slipt away. 

By this the lazy gossips of the port, 
Abhorrent of a calculation crost, 470 

Began to chafe as at a personal wrong. 
Some thought that Philip did but trifle 

with her; 
Some that she but held off to draw him on; 
And others laugh'd at her and Philip too. 
As simple folk that knew not their own 

minds; 
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung 
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son 
Was silent, tho' he often look'd his wish; 
But evermore the daughter prest upon her 
To wed the man so dear to all of them 481 
And lift the household out of poverty; 
And Philip's rosy face contracting grew 
Careworn and wan; and all th^ things 

fell on her 
Sharp as reproach. 

At last one night it chanced 
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 
Pray'd for a sign, * My Enoch, is he gone ? ' 
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of 

night 
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her 

heart, 
Started from bed, and struck herself a 

light, 490 

Then desperately seized the holy Book, 
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign. 
Suddenly put her fingfer on the text, 
* Under the palm-tree.' That was nothing 

to her, 
No meaning there; she closed the Book and 

slept. 
When lo 1 her Enoch sitting on a height. 
Under a palm-tree, over him the sun. 
'He is gone,' she thought, 'he is happy, he 

is singing 



Hosanna in the highest; yonder shiiiM 
The Sun of RighteousnesSy and these bt 

palms 9B» 

Whereof the happy people strewing cried 
*< Hosanna in the highest !"' E^n abe 

woke, 
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to 

him, 
* There is no reason why we should not wed.' 
<Then for God's sake,' he answer'd, 'both 

our sakes, 
So yoa will wed me, let it be at onee.' 

So these were wed, and merrily rang tiie 

bells. 
Merrily rang the bells, and they were wed. 
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. 509 
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path. 
She knew not whence ; a whisper on her ear, 
She knew not what; nor loved she to be 

left 
Alone at home, nor ventured ont alone. 
What ail'd her then that, ere she entered, 

often 
El[er hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch. 
Fearing to entea? Philip thought he knew: 
Such doubts and fears were common to ber 

state. 
Being with child ; but when her chOd was 

born. 
Then her new child was as herself renew^d^ 
Then the new mother came about her heart. 
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, $>■ 
And that mysterious instinct wholly died. 

And where was Enoch ? Prosperously 

sail'd 
The ship 'Good Fortune,' tho' at setting 

forth 
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, 

shook 
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet nnvezt 
She slipt across the summer of the world, 
Then siter a long tumble about the Cape 
And frequent interchange of foul and fair. 
She passing thro' the summer world again, 
The breath of heaven came continually 531 
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles, 
Till silent in her oriental haven. 

There Enoch traded for himself, and 

bought 
Quaint monsters for the market of those 

times, 
A gilded dragon also for the babes. 



ENOCH ARDEN 



«3S 




loek? her home-yojage: at first 
iadeea 

a lair tea-<siro1e, day by daj, 

dog, her full-busted figure-head 

Stued o'er tbe ripple feathering from her 

bows: 540 

TWa foUow'd ealms, and then winds yari- 

Tta bafBbig, a long coarse of them; and 

bst 
SlonBiiiieh as droye her under moonless 

heavens 
Tin bard upon the cry of ' breakers' came 
TW oiih of rain, and the loss of all 
Bit Eaoeh and two others. Half the 

sight, 
BsojM spoil floating tackle and broken 



IWm drifted, stranding on an isle at morn 
Biek, bst tbe loneliest m a lonely sea. 

No want was there of human suste- 

Bsnce, 550 

Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing 

roots; 
Kor MTS for pity was it hard to take 
IW klpless ufe so wild that it was tame. 
Hut in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge 
TWj hoilt, and thatch'd with leayes of 

palm, a hut, 
Hsif tat, half native carem. So the three, 
Set is tUs Eden of all plenteousness, 
Dseh with eternal summer, ill-content 
For one, the youngest, hardly more than 

Bait m that nig^t of sodden ruin and 

wreck, 5^ 

Lsf liBjraring out a fiye-years' death-in- 

TWj eoold not leaye him. After he was 

ISO two remaining foand a fallen stem; 
Asd £ooeh's comrade, careless of himself, 
f s s ho l lowing this in Indian fashion, fell 
8as-itrieken, and that other lived alone. 
Is those two deaths he read God's warning 
•wait' 

The moontain wooded to the peak, the 

lawns 
isd winding glades high up like ways to 

heaven. 
The slender coco's drooping crown of 

phimes, sv> 

The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 



The lustre of the long convolvuluses 
That coil'd around the stately stems, and 

ran 
Even to the limit of the land, the glows 
And glories of the broad belt of the 

world, — 
All these he saw; but what he fain had 

seen 
He could not see, the kindly human face, 
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard 
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl. 
The league-long roller thundering on the 

reef, 580 

The moving whisper of huge trees that 

branch'd 
And blossom 'd in the zenith, or the sweep 
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, 
As down the shore he ranged, or all day 

loujf 
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, 
A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail. 
No sail from day to day, but every day 
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts 
Among the palms and ferns and precipices; 
The blaze upon the waters to the east; 590 
The blaze upon his island overhead; 
The blaze upon the waters to the west; 
Then the great stars that globed them- 
selves in heaven, 
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again 
The scarlet shafts of sunrise — but no sail. 

There often as he watch'd or seem'd to 

watch. 
So still the golden lizard on him paused, 
A phantom made of many phantoms moved 
Before him haunting him, or he himself 
Moved haunting people, things, and places, 

known teo 

Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small 

house, 
The climbing street, tbe mill, the leafy 

lanes. 
The peacock yew-tree and the lonely Hall, 
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the 

chill 
November dawns and dewy -glooming 

downs. 
The gentle shower, the smell of dying 

leaves. 
And the low moan of leaden-celor'd seas. 

Once likewise, in the ringing of his eari. 
Tho' faintly, merrily — far and far away — 



«36 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



He beard the pealing of his parish bells; 6i x 
Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started 

np 
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hate- 
ful ule 
Retnm'd upon him, had not his poor heart 
Spoken with That which being everywhere 
Lets none who speaks with Him seem all 

alone. 
Sorely the man had died of solitnde. 

Thus over Enoch's early-silTcring head 
The sunny and rainy seasons came and 

went 
Tear after year. His hopes to see his 



own. 



6jo 



And pace Uie sacred old familiar fields, 
Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom 
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship — 
She wanted water — blown by baffling 

winds, 
Like the * Good Fortune,' from her destined 

course, 
Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she 

lay; 
For since the mate had seen at early dawn 
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle 
The silent water slipping from the bills, 629 
They sent a crew that landing burst away 
Li search of stream or fount, and fill'd the 

shores 
With clamor. Downward from his moun- 
tain gorge 
Stept the long-hair'd, long-bearded soli- 
tary, 
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely 

clad. 
Muttering and mumbling, idiot - like it 

seem'd. 
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 
They knew not what; and yet he led the 

To where the rivulets of sweet water ran. 
And ever as he mingled with the crew, 
And heard them talking, his long-bounden 
tongue 640 

Was loosen'd, till he made them under- 
stand; 
Wliom, when their casks were fill'd, they 

took aboard. 
And there the tale he ntter'd brokenly, 
Scarce-credited at first but more and more, 
Amazed and melted all who listen'd to it; 
And clothes they gave him and free passage 
home. 



But oft he work'd among the vert mmd 

shook 
His isolation from him. None of these 
Came from his country, or ocmld answer 

him. 
If question'd, aught of what he eaxed to 
know. 69* 

And dull the voyage was with loog de- 
lays, 
The vessel scarce sea-worthy; hot e^ee* 

more 
His fancy fled before the lazy wind 
Returning, till beneath a clouded meon 
He liVe a lover down thro' all his blood 
Drew in the dewy meadowy moming4ireatik 
Of England, blown across her ghostly walL 
And that same morning officers and meii 
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves. 
Pitying the lonely man, and gave him it; 
Then moving up the coast they lan^d 
him, 66c 

Even in that harbor whence he sail'd be- 
fore. 

There Enoch spoke no word to any one. 
But homeward — home — what home ? had 

he a home ? — 
Hb home, he walk'd. Bright was that af* 

temoon. 
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro' either 

chasm. 
Where either haven open'd on the deeps, 
RoU'd a sea-haze and whelm'd the world 

in gray, 
Cut off the length of highway on before. 
And left but narrow breadth to left and 

right 670 

Of withered holt or tilth or pasturage. 
On the nigh-uaked tree the robin piped 
Disconsolate, and thro' the dripping haze 
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it 

down. 
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom ; 
Last, as it seem'd, a great mist -blotted 

light 
Flared on him, and he came upon the 

place. 

Then down the long street having slowly 

stolen. 
His heart foreshadowing all calamity. 
His eyes upon the stones, he reach'd the 

home 680 

Where Annie lived and loved him, and his 

babes 



ENOCH ARDEN 



«37 



fuHiff aeTen bappj years were 

bora; 
Bai findiag neitber light nor mannur 

there — 
A bin of tele gleani'd thro' the drizzle — 

ciept 
Baid»-.j«dt.u«king..de«io,de«lto 

Dofvi to the pool and narrow wharf he 
weatv 
Sitldag a tavern which of old he knew, 
A fa«Bt of timber-oroet antiquity, 
fitpn^ worm-eaten, minouBl J old, 
Btlhoeght it mnst haye gone; but he was 

gMW 690 

Wko kept ity and hb widow Miriam Lnne, 
Witk duly - dwindling profits held the 



1 ksst of brawling seamen once, but 



Sl3ler, with jet a bed for wandering men. 
IVnt Enoch tested silent many days. 

Bii Miriam Lane was good and garru- 

9m IH bim be, but often breaking in, 
Tdd lum, with other annals of the port, 
K«t ksowiog — Enoch was so brown, so 

kow-d, 
8» Wolmi — all the story of his boose: 700 
Rb bibjr's death, her growing poverty, 
Bam FiSirp put her little ones to school, 
Asd kept them in it, his long wooing her, 
Btr ilow consent and marriage, and the 

birth 
Of Philip's child ; and o'er his countenance 
KsdMdow past, nor motion. Any one, 
Bcgsniiag, well had deem'd he felt the 

tale 
Lm ttaa the teller; only when she closed, 
'Eioeb, poor man, was cast away and 

lost,' 
Hi, tfciking his gray head pathetically, 710 
Kipetted mattering, *cast away and lost;' 
A|iii m deeper inwsrd whispers, * lost 1 ' 

Bat Enoch yearn'd to see her face again: 
'If I migfat look on her sweet face again, 
Aad know that she is happy.' So the 

thonght 
Hnated and harass'd bim, and drore him 

forth. 
At tfeaiDg when the dull November day 
Wit growiiig duller twilight, to the hill. 



There he sat down gazing on all below; 
There did a thousaud memories roll upon 
him, 7K> 

Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
The ruddy square of comfortable light, 
Far-blaziug from the rear of Philip's house. 
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
Tb^ bird of passage, till he madly strikes 
Against it and beats out his wesry life. 

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the 

street. 
The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
With one small gate that open'd on tlio 

waste, 
Flourish'd a little garden square and 

wall'd, 730 

And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
A yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk 
Of shingle, and a walk divided it. 
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and 

stole 
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and 

thence 
That which he better might have shunn'd, 

if griefs 
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 

For cups and silver on the bnrnish'd 

board 
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the 

hearth ; 
And on the right hand of the hearth he 

saw 740 

Philip, the slighted suitor of old times. 
Stout, ro8y, with his babe across his knees; 
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
A later but a loftier Annie Ijee, 
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted 

hand 
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy 

arms. 
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they 

laugh 'd ; 
And on the left hand of the hearth he 

saw 
The mother glancing often toward her 

babe, 750 

But turning now and then to speak with 

him. 
Her son, who stood beside her tall and 

strong, 
And saying that which pleased him, for he 

smiled. 



«38 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Now when the dead man come to life be- 
held 
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. 
And ab the warmth, the peace, the happi- 
ness. 
And his own children tall and beantifol. 
And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
Lord of his rights and of his children's 
love — 760 

Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him 

aU. 
Because things seeu are mightier than things 

heard, 
Stagger'd and shook, holding the branch, 

and fear'd 
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, 
Which in one moment, like the blast of 

doom. 
Would shatter all the happiness of the 
hearth. 

He therefore turning softly like a thief, 
Lest the harsh shingle should grate under- 
foot, 
And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 
found, 770 

Crept to the gate, and open'd it and 

closed. 
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. 
Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 

And there he would have knelt, but that 
his knees 
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd: 

* Too hard to bear f why did they take 
me thence ? 
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou 
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle, 
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness 780 
A little longer f aid me, eive me strength 
Not to tell her, never to let her know. 
Help me not to break in upon her peace. 
My children too ! must I not speak to 

these? 
They know me not. I should betray my- 
self. 
Never ! no father's kiss for me — the girl 
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.' 

There speech and thought and nature 
faU'd a litUep 



And he lay traaoed; but when he 

paced 

Back toward his solitary home again, yiB 
All down the long and narrow ati ee t bs 

went 
Beatine it in upon his weary brain. 
As tho it were the burthen of a eoag, 
* Not to tell her, never to let her know.' 

He was not all unhappy. His reaolve 
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evennote 
Prayer from a living sonroe witiun At 

will. 
And beating np thro' all the bitter wotld» 
Like fountains of sweet water in the see. 
Kept him a living souL 'This miller^ 

wife,' Sw 

He said to Miriam, ' that yon spoke about. 
Has she no fear that her first hnshand 

Uves?' 
<Ay, ay, poor soul,' said Miriam, 'fear 

enow! 
If you could tell her joa had seen him 

dead. 
Why, that would be her comfort; ' and be 

thought, 
'After the Lord has call'd me she shall 

know, 
I wait His time; ' and Enoch set himself. 
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live. 
Almost to all things could he turn his 

hand. 
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought 
To make the boatmen fishing -nets, or 

help'd 8it 

At lading aud unlading the tall barks 
That brought the stinted commerce of 

those days. 
Thus eam'd a scanty living for himself. 
Tet since he did but labor for himself. 
Work without hope, there was not life in 

it 
Whereby the man could live; and as the 

year 
Roll'd itself round again to meet the day 
When Enoch had return'd, a languor came 
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually 8ao 
Weakening the man, till he could do no 

more, 
But kept the house, his chair, and last his 

bed. 
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully. 
For sure no gladlier does the stranded 

wreck 
See thro' the gray skirts of a lifting squall 



ENOCH ARDEN 



239 



Tki boat thfti bean the hope of life ap- 

protteh 
TemT* the life 



of, than he saw 
him, and the close of 



For khvo* that dawning gleam'd a kind- 
lier hope 
Oa Eaoeh thinking, * after I am gone, 830 
TiKa na? she learn I loTed her to the last.' 
Ht csU*d aloud for Miriam Liane and said : 
*WoBM«i I hare a secret — only swear, 
BefoN 1 tell jou — swear upon the book 
Sot to reveal it, till yon see roe dead.' 
* Dcid,' elamor*d the good woman, ' hear 

Inmtalkl 
I wiiat, inan, that we shaU bring you 

roond. 
'SvMT,' added Enoch sternly, <on the 

book;' 
Aid OB the book, half-frighted, Miriam 

•wore. 
TIti Eaoeh rolling his gray eyes upon 

her, 840 

'Di4 yon know Enoch Arden of this 

town?' 
*Kaov bim ? ' she said, * I knew him far 

away. 
Ay, sy, I mind him coming down the 

street; 
BcU kit head high, and cared for no man, 

be.' 
8My tod sadly Enoch answer'd her: 
'Hii bead is low, and no man cares for 

bim. 
I tkiik 1 haye not three days more to lire; 
I IB the man.' At which the woman gave 
A kslf-ioerednlous, half-hysterical cry: 
'Toa Arden, you I nay, — sure he was a 

foot 850 

Btkr than yon be.' Enoch said again: 
'My God has bow'd me down to what I 

am; 
My grief and solitude have broken me; 
Xtmtbeless, know you that I am he 
Who married — but that name has twice 

been changed — 
t aanied her who married Philip Ray. 
Sk, fisten.' Then he told her of his voy- 

His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back, 
His gasiBg in on Annie, bis resolve, 859 
Aad bow he kept it As the woman beard, 
Fast itfw'd the current of her easy tears, 
Wkfla k bar baart she yaam'd inoetiantly 



To rush abroad all round the little haven. 

Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes; 

But awed and promise-bounden she for- 
bore. 

Saying only, < See your bairns before yon 
go! 

Eh, let me fetch 'em, Arden,' and arose 

Eager to bring them down, for Enoch 
hung 

A moment on her words, but then replied: 

* Woman, disturb me not now at the 

last, 870 

Hut let me hold my purpose till I die. 
Sit down again; mark me and understand, 
While 1 have power to speak. I charge 

you now, 
When vou shall see her, tell bar that I 

died 
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her; 
Save for the bar between us, loving her 
As when she laid her head beside my own. 
And tell my daughter Annie, whom 1 saw 
So like her mother, that my latest breath 
Was spent in blessing her and praying for 

her. 880 

And tell my son that I died blessing him. 
And say to Philip that I blest him too; 
He never meant us anything but good. 
But if my children care to see me dead. 
Who hardly knew me living, let them 

come, 
I am their father; but she must not come, 
For my dead face would vex her after-life. 
And now there is but one of all my blood 
Who will embrace roe in the world-to-be. 
This hair is his, she cut it off and gave it. 
And I have borne it with me all these 

years, 891 

And thought to bear it with me to my 

grave; 
But now my mind is changed, for I shall 

see him. 
My babe in bliss. Wherefore when I am 

gone. 
Take, give her this, for it may eomfort 

her; 
It will moreover be a token to her 
That I am he.' 

He ceased; and Miriam Lane 
Made such a voluble answer promising all, 
That once again he roird his eyes upon her 
Repeating ul he wished, and onoe again 90* 
8ha promised* 



f4o 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Then the third night after this. 

While Enoch slumber'd motionless and 
pale, 

And Miriam watch'd and dozed at inter- 
vals, 

There came so loud a calling of the sea 

That all the houses in the haven rang. 

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms 
abroad. 

Crying with a loud voice, < A sail ! a sail ! 

I am saved; ' and so fell back and spoke 
no more. 

So past the strong heroic soul awaj. 
And when they buned him the little port 
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral. 911 



AYLMER'S FIELD 

1793 

This poem, first published with ' Enoch Ar- 
den/ was leas faTorably received than the lat- 
ter by the English critics, on acconut of what 
* Blackwood ' calls *' Tennyson^s old infelicity 
in dealing with the higher orders.' That re- 
viewer also finds fault with the con8tnoti<m of 
the story : * The incidents are somewhat trite, 
and its characters more than somewhat im- 
probable. Its heroine a a model of every 
Christian virtue ; yet she deceives her father, 
and carries on a clandestine correspondence 
with her lover. Her pastor is an excellent 
dergyman; yet when two of his parishioners 
seek the sanctuary for the first time after their 
daughter*s death, he seizes the opportunity to 
preach publicly against thera — an act surely 
unbefitting the pulpit of any period or of any 
country, bat simply impossible in that of a de- 
cent rector in the decorous Church of England 
of the eighteenth century. . . . Averiirs ser- 
mon doubtless contains what a man, situated as 
he was, could not help thinking ; but no less 
certainly what a gentleman and a Christian 
would, when the mischief was done and the 
punishment had fallen, have scrupulously re- 
frained from publicly expressing. Why pour 
the molten lead of those fierce denunciations 
into wounds yet deeper than his own ? Why 
smite those afresh whom God had smitten so 
terribly already ? The preacher, arising from 
his own desolate hearth, like a prophet of old, 
to denounce the crime which has laid it waste, 
is unquestionably a grandly tragic figure. But 
a deeper sense of the proprieties of character 
might have enabled its pomessor to attain this 
fine e£Fect without that perilous approach to 
the unreal and to the theatrical, by whioh, as it 



appears to us, it has been parehaeed in Ae pM 
sent instance.' 
The * Qnarteriy Review ' aa js of ^ poM 

* Full of wonderful beauty in plaoea, and wA 
ten throughout as Blr. Teanyem alone an 
write, we must, by the standard of hk fonMi 
work, pronounce it a comparative faulnrs. IV 
story does not hear the marks of sneh eaieM 
thooght, in its design, nor in the gr o n p JBg d 
its parts. After the simple and elear coEeet d 
'' Enoch Arden," *" Aylmer's Field " ghts m 
unoertain impression, and wants a like nfom 
Nor is there the same oontinuoDs ««^ftl*ii^ d 
probabilities in the action, nor the same pni 
and noble feeling in the penona. . . • Sir A^ 
mer Aylmer is drawn wiUi no kindly insi^ 
he is a stupid ruffian, and being so is no typi 
of an English gentleman. His wife is a men 
shadow upon the page, and the author writs 
throughout more in the spirit of a radieal pam 
phleteer than of the poet laureate.' 

Peter Bayne, on Uie other hand, remaiki 

* ** Aylmer's field " seems to me the eompas 
ion picture to ^* Locksley HalL" It is one 
the most tragic of Tennyson's pieoes — one or 
the saddest, sternest, and I might almost ad 
mightiest, poems in the world. In ** Looksle 
Hidl " we see desecrated affection *»*^"g tw 
persons unhappy ; in ** Aylmer's Field " ^ 
blight is more deadly and more eomprehensivi 
I know nothing of Tennyson's in which ^ 
moral earnestness is so prophet-like as in thi 
grreat poem. With all the might of his genis 
in its maturity, he pours a molten torrent of ii 
dignation and of scorn upon that pride whic 
is, perhaps, the central vice of England, tha 
pride which displays itself in many ways — i 
pride of birth, in pride of gold, in pride of in 
sular superiority, and which is always desolal 
ing and deadly. Pride, in this instance, trani 
pling love under its feet, provides exquisite pu 
for all the chief personages in the poem, an 
obliterates two ancient families from the fae 
of the earth. . . . 

* In this poem Tennyson has reaped the high 
est honor man can attain, namely, that of add 
ing to the Scripture of his country; nor shoul* 
I think it a much less dark or pernicious erro 
than the pride which caused aU this woe, t 
hold that the Almighty could speak onl 
through or to Jewish seers, and that there i 
no true inspiration in such writing as this.' 

The fact (see page 227 above) that the stor 
of the poem is true is a sufficient reply to th> 
criticisms of ' Blackwood ' and the ' Quarterly 
upon what seems * improbable ' in it. 

The present Lord Tennyson sa3rs, in th< 
' Memoir * (vol. ii. p. 9): * The opening lines o 
** Aylmer's Field *' unfold the moral of tha 
poem. The sequel describes the Nemesis whid 
fell upon Sir Aylmer Aylmer in his pride o 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



241 



If y fi^MT •l^'Ays ^>lt a prophet's 
wnUh apuBst uiis form of selfish- 
«■; sad ao oaa eao read his tenihle dennn- 
mSmm of aasli pride trampling- on a holy 
hmm lota, wHmrat being aware that the 

£\ bent baiBt within him while at work en 
telsof 



Dost am oar frames; and, gilded dost, 
ear pride 
Liob only for a moment whole and sound, 
UkM tkal loog4mried body of the king, 
FoHid lying with hit urns and ornaments, 
Wkidi at a toaoh of light, an air of heaven, 
SSqi laUt ashes, and was found no more. 

Hot is a storr which in rougher shape 
Cum from a rnxzled cripple, whom I saw 
Smng himself in a waste field alone — 
OUiiM a mine of memories — who had 
•erred, to 

Ltafoaee, a bygone rector of the place, 
iti ben himself a part of what he told. 

8dk Atuhb Atlmxr, that almighty 



TW fooatT God — in whose capacious ball, 
Bsig with a hundred shields, the family 

tree 
8pn^ from the midriff of a prostrate 

king— 
Wk«t blaring wyrem weathereock'd the 

ipire, 
stood from his walls and wing'd his entry- 
gates, 
Asdfviag besides on many a windy sign — 
Wkot eyes from under a pyramidal head 
Ssv inia bis windows nothing sare his 
own -^ ai 

Wkt lovelier of hb own had bo than her, 
Hitoaly child, his Edith, whom be loved 
Ai boinss and not heir regretfully ? 
Bot'be that marries her marries her name.' 
Hk flat somewhat soothed himself and 



ffii wife a faded beauty of the Baths, 

Upid as the queen upon a card; 

flcr all of thought and bearing hardly 



Ibao bis own shadow in a sickly son. y> 

A famd of bops and poppy-mingled corn, 
little about it stirring save a brook ! 
A oleepy land, where under the same wheel 
The mmm old rut would deepen year by 



Where almost all the village had one name ; 
Where Avlmer followed Aylmer at the 

Hail 
And Averill Averill at the Rectory 
Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall, 
Bound in an immemorial intimacv. 
Were open to each other; the' to dream 40 
That Love could bind them closer well had 

made 
The hoar hair of the baronet bristle up 
With horror, worse than had he heard his 

priest 
Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men, 
Daughters of God; so ueepy was the land. 

And might not Averill, had he wiU'd it 

so. 
Somewhere beneath his own low range of 

roofs. 
Have also set his many-shielded tree ? 
There was an Aylmer -Averill marriage 

once. 
When the red rose was redder than itself. 
And York's white rose as red as Lancas- 

ter's, 5> 

With wounded peace which each had prick'd 

to death. 
' Not proven,' Averill said, or laughingly, 
' Some other race of Averills ' — proven or 

no. 
What cared he ? what, if other or the 

same ? 
He lean'd not on his fathers but himself. 
Bnt Leolin, his brother, living oft 
With Averill, and a year or two before 
Caird to the bar, but ever call'd away 
By one low voice to one dear neighborhood, 
Would often, in bis walks with Edith, 

claim 61 

A distant kinship to the eraeious blood 
That shook the heart of Edith hearing him 



Sanguine he was; abut less vivid hue 
Than of that islet in the chestnut-bloom 
Flamed in his cheek; and eager eyes, that 

still 
Took joyful note of all things joyful, 

beam'd, 
Beneath a mane-like mass of rolling gold, 
Their best and brightest when they dwelt 

on hers, 
Edith, whose pensive beauty, perfect else, 
Bnt subject to the season or the mood, 71 
Shone like a mystic star between the less 
And greater glory varying to Mid frO| 



942 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



We know not wherefore; bounteonslj made, 
And yet so finely, that a troublous touch 
Thinn'd, or would seem to thin her in a day, 
A joyous to dilate, as toward the light. 
And these had been together from the first. 
Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, 

hers. 
So much the boy foreran; but when his 

date 80 

Doubled her own, for want of playmates, 

he — 
Since Averill was a decad and a half 
His elder, and their parents underground — 
Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and 

roU'd 
His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt 
Against the rush of the air in the prone 

swing, 
Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged 
Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it 

green 
In living letters, told her fairy-tales. 
Showed her the fairy footings on the grass, 
The little dells of cowslip, niiry palms, 91 
The pettj mare's-tail forest, fairy pines, 
Or from the tiny pitted target blew 
What look'd a night of fairj arrows aim'd 
All at one mark, all hitting, make-believes 
For Edith and himself; or else he forged. 
But that was later, boyish histories 
Of battle, bold adventure, dungeon, wreck. 
Flights, terrors, sudden rescues, and true 

love 
Crown*d after trial; sketches rude and 

faint, 100 

But where a passion yet unborn perhaps 
Lay hidden as the music of the moou 
Sleeps in the plain eggs of the nightingale. 
And thus together, save for college-times 
Or Temple-eaten terms, a couple, fair 
As ever painter painted, poet sang, 
Or heaven in lavish bounty moulded, grew. 
And more and more, the maiden woman- 
ly wn. 
He wasted hours with Averill ; there, when 

first 
The tented winter-field was broken up no 
Into that phalanx of the summer spears 
That soon should wear the garland; there 

again 
When burr and bine were gathered; lastly 

there 
At Christmas; ever welcome at the Hall, 
On whose dull sameness hia fall tide of 

youth 



Broke with a phosphoreseenoe dian 

even 
My lady, and the baronet yet had laid 
No bar between them. Doll and ad 

volved. 
Tall and erect, but bending from his he 
With half-allowing smiles for all the wc 
A«d mighty courteooa in the nmin- 

pnde 
Lay deeper than to wear it aa his ring- 
He, like an Aylmer in his Aylmetism, 
Would care no more for Leolin's wdl 

with her 
Than for his old Newfoundland's, when! 

ran 
To loose him at the stables, for he rose 
Two-footed at the limit of his chain, 
Rouine to miike a thitd; »>d bow ah. 

Love, 
Whom the cross-lightnings of four oha 

met eyes 
Flash into fiery life from nothing, folio 
Such dear familiarities of dawn ? 
Seldom, but when he does, master of a] 

So these yonnfip hearts, not knowing 

they loved. 
Not she at least, nor conscious of a bai 
Between them, nor by plight or brc 

ring 
Bound, but an immemorial intimacy, 
Wander'd at will, and oft accompanied 
By Averill; his, a brother's love, that I 
With wings of brooding shelter o'er 

peace. 
Might have been other, save for Leolin 
Who knows ? but so they wander'd, 1 

by hour 
Gather'd the blossom that re-bloom'd, 

drank 
The mag^c cup that fiU'd itself anew. 

A whisper half reveal'd her to hersel 
For out beyond her lodges, where the bi 
Vocal, with here and there a silence, n 
By sallowy rims, arose the laborers' hoi 
A freouent haunt of Edith, on low kno! 
That dimpling died into each other, hu 
At random scatter'd, each a nest in bh 
Her art, her hand, her counsel, all 

wrought 
About them. Hero was one that, sumi 

blanch'd. 
Was parcel-bearded with the travail) 

joy 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



«43 



h Mtsmiiy paroel iTj-elmd; and here 

TIn wmnn*liliie breathings of a hidden 

hearth 
Btoka froin a bower of vine and honey- 



Om looked all roee-tree, and another wore 
AekMC-eet robe of jasmine sown with stars. 
Hh had a rosy sea of gillyflowers 
Aboet it; this, a milky-way on earth, i6o 
liks nsioiis in the Northern dreamer's 

heavens, 
AQy-aYenue climbing to the doors; 
Oie, ilmost to the martin-haunted eaves 
AmBUDer burial deep in hollyhocks; 
Eidi, its own charm; and Edith's every- 
where; 
Aid Edith ever visitant with him, 
He bit less loved than Edith, of her poor. 
For ibe — so lowly-lovely and so loving, 
QsMsly responsive when the loyal hand 
im frrai the clay it work*d in as she 

past, 170 

Kol sowing hedgerow texts and passing by, 
Kor desling ffoodly counsel from a height 
Hat Bskes the lowest hate it, but a voice 
Of mnfort and an open hand of help, 
A i^lendid presence flattering the poor 

roofs 
Btvmd as theirs, but kindlier than them- 

sdvea 
To iiBiig wife or wailing infancy 
Or old MriddeB palsy, — was adored; 
fle« loved for her and for himself. A msp 
&viig the warmth and muscle of the 

heart, 180 

A ddldly way with children, and a laugh 
Kbfiag like proven golden coinage true, 
Vne DO false passport to that easy realm, 
Wbere ooee *vith Leolin at her side the girl, 
Sinng a child, and turning to the warmth 
Tbo tender pink five-beaded baby-soles, 
Bttid the good mother softly whisper, 

•Bless, 
M bleas *em I marriages are made 

heaven.' 



m 



A flash of semi-jealousy dear'd it to her. 
My lady's Indian kinsman unannounced 190 
With lialf a oeore of swarthy faces came. 
His own, tho' keen and bold and soldierly, 
Sear*d hj the dose ecliptic, was not fair; 
Faim his talk, a tongue that ruled the 

boor, 
TW taaming boastfuL So when first he 

daah? 



Into the chronicle of a deedfnl day. 
Sir Aylmer half forgot his lazy smile 
Of patron, *Good! my lady's kinsman 

good!' 
My lady with her fingers interlock'd. 
And rotatory thumbs on silken knees, 
Caird all her vital spirits into each ear 
To listen; unawares they flitted off. 
Busying themselves about the floweraee 
That stood from out a stiff brooscb in 

which, 
The meteor of a splendid season, she. 
Once with this kinsman, ah ! so long ago, 
Stept thro' the stately minuet of those 

days. 
But Edith's eager fancy hurried with him 
Snatch'd thro* the perilous passes of his life; 
Till Leolin, ever watchful of her eye, a 10 
Hated him with a momentary hate. 
Wife-huuting, as the rumor ran, was he. 
I know not, for he spoke not, only show- 

er'd 
II is oriental spfts on every one 
A nd most on Edith. Like a storm he came^ 
And shook the house, and like a storm he 

went 

Among the gifts he left her — possibly 
He flow'd and ebb'd uncertain, to return 
When others had been tested — there was 
one, a 19 

A dagger, in rich sheath with jewels on it 
Sprinkled about in gold that branch'd itself 
Fine as ice-ferns on January panes 
Made by a breath. I know not whence at 

first. 
Nor of what race, the work; but as he told 
The story, storming a hill-fort of thieves 
He got it; for their captain after fight, 
His comrades having fought their lost be- 
low, 
Was climbing up the valley, at whom he 

shot. 
Down from the beetling crag to which he 

clung 
Tumbled the tawny rascal at hb feet, ajo 
This dagger with him, which, when now 

admired 
By Edith whom his pleasure was to please. 
At once the costly Sahib yielded to hsr. 

And Leolin, coming after he was gone. 
Tost over all her presents petulantly; 
And when she show'd the wealthy scmbbard, 



«44 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



*Look what a lovely pieoe of workmaii- 

Bhipl' 
Slight was hia answer, < Well — I oare not 

for it' 
Then playing with the Uade he prick'd his 

hand, 

< A gracious gift to give a lady, this ! ' 340 

< But would it be more gracious,' ask'd the 

' Were 1 to give this ^ft of his to one 
That is no lady ? ' < Gracious ? No,' said 

he. 
'Me? — but I cared not for it. O, par- 
don me, 
I seem to be ungraciousness itself.' 
'Take it,' she added sweetly, ' tho' his gift; 
For I am more ungracious eyen than you, 
I care not for it either; ' and he said, 
'Why, then I love it;' but Sir Aylmer 

past. 
And neither loved nor liked the thing he 
heard. 2y> 

The next day came a neighbor. Blues 

and reds 
They talk'd of; blues were sure of it, he 

thought; 
Then of the latest fox — where started — 

kill'd 
In such a bottom. ' Peter had the brush. 
My Peter, first; ' and did Sir Aylmer know 
That great pook-pitten fellow had been 

caught ? 
Then made his pleasure echo, hand to hand. 
And rollin? as it were the substance of it 
Between his palms a moment up and 

down — 
'The birds were warm, the birds were 

warm upon him; 260 

We have him now;' and had Sir Aylmer 

heard — 
Nay, but he must — the land was ringing 

of it — 
This blacksmith border - marriage — one 

they knew — 
Raw from the nursery — who could trust a 

child ? 
That cursed France with her egalities ! 
And did Sir Aylmer — deferentially 
With nearing chair and lower*d accent — 

think — 
For people talk'd — that it was wholly wise 
To let that handsome fellow Averill walk 
So freely with his daughter ? people 

talk'd— 170 



The boy might set a notioo into him; 
The girl might be entangled ere ahe 
Sir Aylmer Aylmer slowly stiffening spoke: 
' The girl and boy, sir, know their diffsVi 

ences! ' 
'Good,' said his friend, 'but wateh I' adi 

he, ' Enough, 
More than enough, sir I I can gnaid my 

own. 
They parted, and Sir Aylmer Aylmer 

watch'd. 



Pale, for on her the thunders oi th^ 

house 
Had faUen first, was Edith that tame night; 
Pale as the Jephtha's daughter, a rough 

piece «Bo 

Of early rigid color, under which 
Withdrawing by the counter door to that 
Which Leolm open'd, she cast back upon 

him 
A piteous glance, and vanish'd. He, as ooa 
Caught in a burst of unexpected storm. 
And pelted with outrageous epithets, 
Tummg beheld the Powers 01 the House 
On either side the hearth, indignant; her, 
Cooling her false cheek with a feather fas. 
Him, glaring, by his own stale devil 

spurr'd, 990 

And, like a beast hard-ridden, breathing 

hard. 
' Ungenerous, dishonorable, base. 
Presumptuous ! trusted as he was with her. 
The sole succeeder to their wealth, their 

lands. 
The last remaining pillar of their house. 
The one transmitter of their ancient name. 
Their child.' < Our child I' ' Our heiress 1 ' 

• Ours ! ' for still, 
Like echoes from beyond a hollow, came 
Her sicklier iteration. Last he said: 
* Boy, mark me I for your fortunes are to 

make. 300 

I swear you shall not make them out of 



mme. 
Now inasmuch as yon have practised on her, 
Perplext her, made her half forget herself. 
Swerve from her duty to herself and us — 
Things in an Aylmer deem'd impossible. 
Far as we track ourselves — I say that 

this — 
Else I withdraw favor and countenance 
From you and yours for ever — shall yon do. 
Sir, when yon see her — but you shall not 

see her — 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



Ui 



S«(j«« disD write, Mid not to her, bat 






310 



ii4|«m aUl Mj thftt lutTuig spoken with 



Aid titer look*d into jonnelf , you find 
TkX J9m iMMint nothing — as indeed jon 



Sneh n match as 



thisl 
IfMBh l ei prodigious I * These were 



Ai Mtsd bjr his measnie of himself, 
iigiisg boondleas forbearance: after 

vhiehy 

kd Leolin's horror-stricken answer, < I 
fit fosl a traitor to myself and her ! 
Sifti^ 0, BCTer I ' for ahout as lone s>o 
Ai tiM wind -hover hangs in balance, 



Sr Aylmer reddening from the storm 

withist 
Thttkoke all bonds oi courtesy, and ory- 

'%, Aoold I find you by my doors acain, 
MjMn shall lash you Irom them uke a 

Bnn I' with a sudden execration drove 
TWItoMool from before him, and arose; 
fi% MuuDering ' scoundrel ' out of teeth 
that ground 318 

Atjstdrsadful dream, while Leolin still 
KctNtled half-aghast, the fierce old man 
Fdtv'd, and under his own lintel stood 
fiivwig with lifted hands, a hoary face 
Mtit for the reverence of the heajih, but 



a pale and unimpassion'd moon, 
^ot with unworthy madness, and de- 
fomda 

flbvly and eonseious of the rageful eye 
Ihl waleh'd him, till ho heard the pon- 
derous door 
Chn^ etaahing with long echoes thro' the 

"«t Lsolia; then, his passions all in flood 
Asd aaslin oi his motion, furiously 340 
iWi thro' the bright lawns to his bro- 
ther's ran. 
Aid fsam'd awmy hb heart at Averill*i 

AAV* 

Wftm ATeiill aolaeed as he might. 



was hisy had been his father's, 



He must have seen, himself had seen it 

long; 
He must have known, himself had known; 

besides, 
He never yet had set his daughter forth 
Here in the woman-markets of the west, 
Whero our Caucasians let themselves be 

sold. 
Some one, he thought, had slander'd Leo- 
lin to him. 3SO 
'Brother, for I have loved you moro as 

son 
Than brother, let me tell you: I myself — 
What is their pratty saying ? jilted, is it ? 
Jilted I was; I say it for your peace. 
Pain'd, and, as bearing in myself the 

shame 
The woman should have borne, humiliated, 
I lived for years a stunted sunless life; 
Till after our good parents past away 
Watching your growth, I seem'd again to 

TDW. 
almost sin in envying you. 360 
The very whitest lamb in all my fold 
Loves you; 1 know her; the worst thought 

she has 
Is whiter even than her pretty hand. 
She must prove true; for, brother, where 

two fight 
The strongest wins, and truth and love are 

strength, 
And you are happy; let her parents be.' 

But Leolin cried out the more upon 

them — 
Insolent, brainless, heartless ! heiress, 

wealth. 
Their wealth, their heiress ! wealth enough 

was theirs 
For twenty matches. Were he lord of 

this, 37« 

Why, twenty boys and girls should marry 
on it, 

And fortv blest ones bless him, and him- 
self 

Be wealthy still, ay, wealthier. He be- 
lieved 

This filthy marriage-hindering Mammon 
made 

The harlot of the cities; Nature erost 

Was mother of the foul adulteries 

That saturate soul with body. Name, too I 
name. 

Their ancient nsme I they might be proud; 
its worth 



246 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Was being Edith's. Ah, how pale she had 
lool'd 

Darling, to-night 1 they most have rated 
ner 380 

Beyond all toleranoe. These old pheasant- 
lords, 

These partridge -breeders of a thousand 
years, 

Who had mildeVd in their thousands, do- 
ing nothing 

Since Egbert — why, the greater their dis- 
grace I 

Fall back upon a name ! rest, rot in that I 

Not keep it noble, make it nobler ? fools. 

With such a vantage-ground for noble- 
ness 1 

He had known a man, a quintessence of 
man. 

The life of all — who madly loved — and 
he, 389 

Thwarted by one of these old father-fools. 

Had rioted his life out, and made an end. 

He would not do it 1 her sweet face and 
faith 

Held him from that; but he had powers, 
he knew it. 

Back would he to his studies, make a 
name, 

Name, fortune too; the world should ring 
of him. 

To shame these mouldy Aylmers in their 
graves. 

Chancellor, or what is greatest would he 
be — 

' O brother, I am grieved to learn your 
grief — 

Give me my fling, and let me say my say.' 

At which, like one that sees his own ex- 
cess, 400 
And easily forgives it as his own. 
He laughed, and then was mute, but pre- 
sently 
Wept like a storm; and honest Averill, 

seein? 
How low his brother's mood had fallen, 

fetched 
His richest bee's- win? from a binn reserved 
For banquets, praised the waning red, and 

told 
The vintage — when thi$ Aylmer came of 

age- 
Then drank and past it; till at length the 

two, 
The' Leolin flamed and fell again, agreed 



That mueh allowanoe nmit be 

men. 
Alter an angry dream this kindlier glsw 
Faded with morning, but his pupow M&: 

Yet once by night again the loien 
A perilous meetii^ under the tmU pines 
That darken'd afi the northwaid of l«i 

HaU. 
Him, to her meek and modest boaoni pnil 
In agony, she promised that no foree^ 
Persuasion, no, nor death ooold alter her; 
He, passionately hopefuUer, would go^ 
I^abor for his own Edith, and letom #1 
In such a sunlight of prosper!^ 
He should not be rejected. ' Write to ■•! 
They loved me, and because I love tlair 

chUd 
They hate me. There is war b et ween leg 

dear. 
Which breaks all bonds but ours; we 

remain 
Sacred to one another.' So they talk'd. 
Poor children, for their eomfort. The 

blew. 
The rain of heaven and their own 

tears. 
Tears and the careless rain of htm 

mizt 
Upon their faces, as they kiss'd each other 
In darkness, and above them roared 

pine. 

So Leolin went; and as we task 
selves 
To learn a lang^uage known but smattep- 

ingly 
In phrases here and there at random, tofl'd 
Mastering the lawless science of our law. 
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led. 
May beat a pathway out to wealth and 

fame. 
The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's 
room, 440 

Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurri- 
lous tale, — 
Old scandals buried now seven decads deep 
In other scandals that have lived and die^ 
And left the living scandal that shall die — 
Were dead to him already; bent as he waa 
To make disproof of scorn, and strong ia 

hopes. 
And prodigal of all brain-labor he, 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



247 



ci dMp» And wine, and ezareisey 
itImd for a bveathini^while at eve, 
wimgud fraetioa id an hour, be ran 
laMiivvp-baiik. And then indeed 45s 
Mbr the tioMi were, and the hands of 




Ym floodier» and the aooording hearts of 
tmM hnider too; bat the soft rivei^ 
WWi faaa'd the gardens of that riTal 



Tilfrigrant in a heart remembering 

Hi fomer talks with Edith, on him 

bnathed 
Fv|nielier in his mshings to and fro, 
Albr Ids books, to flnsh his blood with air, 
Tkm to hia books again. My lady's 
ooosin, 460 

H d f' W'kening of his pension'd afternoon, 
Hlvft m npoa the stodent onoe or twice, 
In i Malayan amnok against the times, 
UfoUen hopes for France and all man- 
Mad, 
i w e u' d all queries teaching those at 



With t hs a ^ed sboalder and a sancy smile, 
hi him had haled him oat ioto the world, 
hi sB^d him there. His nearer friend 

voold say, 
'fatw not the chord too sharply lest it 



IWi left alone he pinck'd her dagger 

forth 470 

Am where his worldless heart had kept 

it warm, 
Ihng his TOWS apon it like a knight. 
iai wrinkled benchers often talk'd of him 
i|>f III iiigly, and prophesied his rise; 
^ ~ I think, help*d head. Her let- 



teis too, 

1W Isr between, and coming fitfully 
like broken mosie, written as she found 
Or made occasion, being strictly watch'd, 

I'd him thro' CYcry labyrinth till be 



« a hope, a light breaking apon 

4S0 



K Umt that east her spirit into flesh, 
worldly-wise begetters, plagned them- 

■elrea 
Xa sell her, those good parents, for her 

good. 

irer eldest-bom of rank or wealth 



Might lie within their compass, him they 

lured 
Into their net made pleasant by the baits 
Of gold and beauty, wooing him to woo. 
So month by month the noise about their 

doors, 
And distant blaze of those dull banquets, 

made 489 

The nightly wirer of their innoeent hare 
Falter Dcf ore he took it. All in vain. 
Snllen, defiant, pit^g, wroth, retam'd 
Leoliu's rejected rivals from their suit 
So often, that the foll^ taking wings 
Slipt o'er those lazy Imiits down the wind 
With rumor, and became in other fields 
A mockery to the yeomen over ale. 
And laughter to their lords. But those at 

home, 
As hunters round a hunted creature draw 
The cordon close and closer toward the 

death, joo 

Narrow 'd her goings out and comings in; 
Forbade her fint the house of Averul, 
Then closed her access to the wealthier 

farms, 
latest from her own home-circle of the poor 
They barr'd her. Yet she bore it, yet her 

cheek 
Kept color — wondrous ! but, O mystery 1 
What amulet drew her down to that old 

oak. 
So old, that twenty years before, a part 
Falling had let appear the brand of John — 
Once groTc-like, each huge arm a tree, but 

now sio 

The broken base of a black tower, a cave 
Of touchwood, with a single flourishing 

spray. 
There the manorial lord too curiously 
Raking in that millennial touchwood-dust 
Found for himself a bitter treasare-trove; 
Burst his own wyyem on the seal, and read 
Writhing a letter from his child, for which 
Came at the moment Leolin's emissarr, 
A crippled lad, and coming tum'd to Ay, 
But scared with threats of jail and halter 

gave jjo 

To him that fluster'd his poor parish wits 
The letter which he brought, and swore 

besides 
To play their go-between as heretofore 
Nor let them know themselves betray'd; 

and then, 
Soiil-Ktricken at thrir kindness to him, went 
Hating his own lean heart and miserable. 



948 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Thenoeforward oft from out a despot 
dream 
The father panting woke, and oft, as dawn 
Aroused the black republic on his elms, 
Sweeping the froth -fly from the fesene 
brash'd S30 

Thro' the dim meadow toward his treasure- 
trove, 
Seised it, took home, and to my lady, — 

who made 
A downward crescent of her minion uonth. 
Listless in all despondence, — read; and 

tore. 
As if the living passion symboll'd there 
Were living nerves to teel the rent; and 

burnt. 
Now chafing at his own great self defied. 
Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of 

scorn 
In babyisms and dear diminutives 
Scattered all over the vocabulary 540 

Of such a love as like a chidden child. 
After much wailing, hush'd itself at last 
Hopeless of answer. Then tho' Averill 

wrote 
And bade him with good heart sustain him- 
self— 
All would be well — the lover heeded not. 
But passionately restless came and went. 
And rustling once at night about the place. 
There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt, 
Raging retum'd. Nor was it well for her 
Kept to the garden now, and grove of 
pines, sso 

Watch'd even there; and one was set to 

watch 
The watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them 

all, 
Yet bitterer from his readings. Once in- 
deed, 
Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in 

her, 
She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly. 
Not knowing what possessed him. That one 

kiss 
Was Leolin's one strong rival upon earth; 
Seconded, for my lady follow*d suit, 
Seem'd hope's returning rose; and then en- 
sued 
A Martin's summer of his faded love, 560 
Or ordeal by kindness. After this 
He seldom crost his child without a sneer; 
The mother flow'd in shallower acrimonies. 
Never one kindly smile, one kindly word; 
So that the gentle creature shut from all 



Her eharitable use, and face to fMa 
With twenty months of silence^ rioiHjy 
Nor greatly eared to lose, her liold cm h§m^ 
Last some low fever ranging romid to tf^ 
The weakness of a people or a hoaM^ 
Like flies that haunt a wound, or dMi^ 

men. 
Or almost all that is, hnrtinj^ the hvt-— 
Save Christ as we believe lum — fond '* 

girl 
And flnng her down npon a ooQeh of §tn, 
Where careless of toe hoosdiold 



of LeoliB, 
of 




And crying upon the name 
She, and with her the 
past. 



Star to rtar ribimtM light; may mM 
soul 
Strike thro' a finer element of her own? 
So, — from afar, — touch as at onee? 

his name. 
Did the keen shriek, < Yes, love, yet, 

yes,' 
Shrill, till the comrade ol bis 

woke. 

And oame upon him half-arisen from slee^^ 
With a weird bright eye, sweating b j v^ 

trembling. 
His hair as it were crackling into flames. 
His body half flung forward in pursuit. 
And his long arms stretch'd as to grasp ^ 

flyer. 
Nor knew he wherefore he had made tha 



cry; 



S90 



And being much befool'd and idioted 
By the rough amity of the other, sank 
As into sleep again. The second day. 
My lady's Indian kinsman rushing in, 
A breaker of the bitter news from home. 
Found a dead man, a letter edged with 

death 
Beside him, and the dagger which himself 
Gave Edith, redden'd with no bandit's 

blood; 
' From Edith ' was engraven on the blade. 

Then Averill went and gazed upon his 
death. 

And when he came again, his flock be- 
lieved — 600 

Beholding how the years which are not 
Time's 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



349 



U MMtid Um— thftt many thoiuand 

dajt 
Yen d^i bj lioRor from his term of life. 
Tfli tiM md mother, for the seoond death 
%mm tooeh'd her thzo* that neameaa of 

the lint, 
Ailbtbg need to ibd her paator texts, 
Siitli the hantyw'd brother, praying him 
Ttipiek before the pe<^e of her cmld, 
Ail fiit the Sabbath. Darkly that day 



AirfiBB's mock nmehine of the faded 
woods 610 

Wm iU the life of it; for hard on these, 
A bwitlilesi burthen of low - folded hea- 



Stiisd sod chill'd at onee; but eyeir roof 
tinkoot a listener. Many too had known 
E£lk SBKMig the hamlets round, and since 
He parents' harshness and tiie hapless 



Asd doable death were widely mnrmur*d, 

left 
tkn own nay tower, or plain-f aoed tab- 

fniafttft. 
To besr him; all in monming these, and 

those 619 

Wilk blots of it abont them, ribbon, glore, 
(kktrohief ; while the church, — one night, 

exeept 
Firgieeaisli riinmierings thro' the lancets, 

Ml paler the pale head of him, who tow- 

er'd 
Aksft them, with his hopes in either grave. 



Leaf o*er his bent brows linger'd Aver- 

Rii fsee magnetic to the hand from which 
Lifid he plnek'd it forth, and labor'd thro' 
His brief prayer-prelnde, gave the yerse, 

Toar boose is left unto you desolate ! ' 
Bat l ap s ed into so long a pause again 630 
As half amased, half highted,all his flock; 
TWb from his height and loneliness of 

grief 
Bore down in flood, and dash'd his angry 

heart 
the desolations of the world. 



Noyer sinoe onr bad earth became one 



roUing o'er the palaces of the 



And all but those who knew the living 

God- 
Eight that were left to make a purer 

world — 
When since had flood, fire, earthquake, 

thunder, wrought 
Such waste and havoc as the idolatries 640 
Which from the low light of mortality 
Shot up their shadows to the heaven of 

heavens. 
And worshipt their own darkness in the 

Highest ? 
* Gash thyself, priest, and honor thy brute 

Baftl, 
And to thy worst self sacrifice thyself. 
For with thy worst self hast thou clothed 

thy God. 
Then came a Lord in no wise like to BaiiL 
The babe shall lead the lion. Surely now 
The wilderness shall blossom as the rose. 
Crown thyself, worm, and worship thine 

own lusts ! — 6so 

No coarse and blockish God of acreage 
Stands at thv gate for thee to grovel to — 
Thy God is far diffused in noble groves 
And princely halls, and farms, and flowing 

lawns, 
And heaps of living gold that daily now. 
And title-scrolU and gorgeous heraldries. 
In such a shape dost thou behold thy God. 
Thou wilt not gash thy flesh for Aim; for 

thine 
Fares richly, in fine linen, not a hair 
Ruffled upon the scarfskin, even while 660 
The deathless ruler of thy dying house 
Is wounded to the death that cannot die; 
And tho' thou numberest with the follow- 
ers 
Of One who cried, ** Leave all and follow 



tf 



me. 
Thee therefore with His light about thy 

feet. 
Thee with His message ringing in thine 

ears. 
Thee shall thy brother man, the Lord from 

heaven, 
Bom of a villa^ girl, carpenter's son, 
Wonderful, Pnnce of Peace, the Mighty 

God, 
Count the more base idolater of the two; 670 
Crueller, as not passing thro' the fire 
Bodies, but souls — thy children's -^ thro' 

the smoke. 
The blight of low 'lesires — darkening thine 

own 



«So 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



To thine own likeness; or if one of these. 
Thy hetter bom unhappily from thee. 
Should, as by miracle, grow straight and 

fair — 
Friends, I was bid to speak of such a one 
By those who most have cause to sorrow 

for her — 
Fairer than Rachel by the palmy well, 679 
Fairer than Ruth among the fields of com, 
Fair as the Angel that said " Hail ! " she 

seem'd, 
Who entering filled the house with sudden 

light 
For so mine own was brighten'd — where 

indeed 
The roof so lowly but that beam of heaven 
Dawn'd sometime thro* the doorway? 

whose the babe 
Too ragged to be fondled on her lap, 
Warm'd at her bosom ? The poor child of 

shame, 
The common care whom no one cared for, 

leapt 
To greet her, wasting his forgotten heart. 
As with the mother he had never known, 690 
In gambols; for her fresh and innocent eyes 
Had such a star of morning in their blue, 
That all neglected places of the field 
Broke into nature's music when they saw 

her. 
Low was her voice, but won mysterious 

way 
Thro' the seal'd ear to which a louder one 
Was all but silence — free of alms her 

baud — 
The hand that robed your cottage-walls 

with flowers 
Has often toil'd to clothe your little ones; 
How often placed upon the sick man's 

brow 700 

Cool'd it, or laid his feverish pillow smooth ! 
Had you one sorrow and she shared it not ? 
One burthen and she would not lighten it ? 
One spiritual doubt she did not soothe ? 
Or when some heat of difference sparkled 

out. 
How sweetly would she glide between your 

wraths. 
And steal you from each other! for she 

walk'd 
Wearing the light yoke of that Lord of love 
Who stul'd the rolling wave of Gralilee ! 
And one — of him I was not bid to speak — 
Was always with her, whom you also 

knew. 711 



Hha too you loved, for he was wort 

love. 
And these had been together from t 

first; 
They might have been together till the la 
Friends, this frail bark of ours, when son 

tried, 
May wreck itself withoat the pilot's gviU 
Without the captain's knowledge; ho] 

with me. 
Whoee shame is that, if he went henee wi 

shame ? 
Nor mine the fault, if losing both of thes 
I cry to vacant chairs and widowed walls, 
** My house is left unto me desolate." ' 3 

While thus he spoke, his hearers wef 

but some. 
Sons of the glebe, with other frowns tk 

those 
That knit themselves for summer shado 

seowl'd 
At their great lord. He, when it seem 

he saw 
No pale sheet'lightnings from afar, b 

fork'd 
Of the near storm, and aiming at his hes 
Sat anger -charm'd from sorrow, soldic 

like, 
Erect; but when the preacher's caden 

flow'd 
Softening thro' all the gentle attributes : 
Of his lost child, the wife, who watch'd 1 

face. 
Paled at a sudden twitch of his iron moot 
And ' O, pray God that he hold up I ' s 

thought, 
< Or surely I shall shame myself and him 

* Nor yours the blame — for who besi* 

your hearths 
Can take her place — if echoing me y 

cry 
<* Our house is left unto us desolate " ? 
But thou, O thou that killest, hadst th 

known, 
O thou that stonest, hadst thou understo 
The things belonging to thy peace a 

ours ! 
Is there no prophet but the voice that ca 
Doom upon kings, or in the waste *'I 

pent " ? 
Is not our own child on the narrow way. 
Who down to those that saunter in t 

broad 



AYLMER'S FIELD 



«Si 



CkiMb" Come up hither,*' ss a prophet to 

»? 
Ii tksra DO itwiing aaye with flint and 

nek? 
r«» M the deed we weep for testif jr — 
fa aitnlition hot hy iword end fire ? 748 
r«, •■ yomr moenings witness, end myself 
Am loetliery dmrker, earthlier for my loss. 
Sifi Be your prmyers, for he is pest your 

YoC Mit the liTing fount of pity in heaven, 
lit I tlwt thought myself long-suffering, 



Kwnwiing *'poor in spirit** — how the 

wwds 
Bate twisted heek upon tbemselres, and 



VfloMit, we are grown so proud — I wish'd 

my Yoioe 
A mliiBg tempest of the wrath of God 
To blow these saeriflces thro' the world — 
Bat like the twelve-diTided concuhine 
To isflame the trihes; but there — out 

yonder — earth 760 

IfbteBs from her own central hell — O, 

there 
TW red fruit of an old idolatry — 
The beads of chiefs and princes fall so fast, 
IW7 ding together in the ghastly sack — 
IW hud all shambles — muced marriages 
Riib hom the bridge, and eyer-muX'd 

Fnmoe, 
V abores that darken with the gathering 

wolf, 
ioi IB a river of blood to the sick sea. 
h tbb a time to madden madness theu ? 
^M this a time for these to flaunt their 

pride ? 770 

liy Pharaoh's darkness, folds as dense as 

thoee 
Vbieh hid the Holiest from the people's 

ejes 
ut the great death, shroud this great sin 

from all I 
vMhtless our narrow world must canvass 

it 
X fithor pray for those and pity them, 
1^ thro' tMir own desire aooomplish'd, 

^ bring 
IWir own gray hairs with sorrow to the 

grave — 
Whs bffoke the bond which they desired to 

break, 
Wlidi else had link'd their race with times 

toeome — 779 



Who wove coarse webs to snare her purity. 
Grossly contriving their dear daughter's 

good- 
Poor souls, and knew not what they did, 

but sat 
Ignorant, devising their own daughter's 

death! 
May not that earthly chastisement suffice ? 
Have not our love and reverence left them 

bare? 
Will not another take their heritage ? 
Will there be children's laughter in their 

haU 
For ever and for ever, or one stone 
Left on another, or is it a li ht thing 
That I, their guest, their host, their ancient 

fnend, 790 

I made by these the last of ull my race. 
Must cry to these the last of theirs, as cried 
Christ ere His agony to those that swore 
Not by the temple but the eold, and made 
Their own traditions God, and slew the 

Lord, 
And left their memories a world's curse — 

** Behold, 
Tour house is left unto you desolate " ? ' 

Ended he had not, but she brook'd no 

more; 
Long since her heart had beat remorse- 
lessly. 
Her craropt-up sorrow pain'd her, and a 

sense 800 

Of meanness in her unresisting life. 
Then their eyes vext her; for on entering 
He had cast the curtains of their seat 

aside — 
Black velvet of the costliest — she herself 
Had seen to that. Fain had she closed them 

now. 
Yet dared not stir to do it, only near'd 
Her husband inch by inch, but when she laid, 
Wifelike, her hand in one of his, he veil'd 
His face with the other, and at once, as 

falU 
A creeper when the prop b broken, fell 810 
The woman shrieking at his feet, and 

swoon'd. 
Then her own people bore along the nave 
Her pendent lund., and narrow me«gi« 

face 
Seam'd with the shallow cares of fifty 

years. 
And her the lord of all the landscape 
• round 



«Sa 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Eren to its last horizon, and of all 
Who peer'd at him so keenly, followed oat 
Tall and erect, but in the middle aisle 
Beel'd, as a footsore oz in crowded ways 
Stumbling across the market to his death, 
Unpitied; for he groped as blind, and 

seem'd Sai 

Always about to &11, grasping the pews 
And oaken finials till he touch'd the door; 
Tet to the lychgate, where his chariot 

stood. 
Strode from the porch, tall and erect 

again. 

But nerermore did either pass the gate 
Save under pall with bemrs. In one 

month, 
Thro' weary and yet eyer wearier hours, 
The childless mother ¥rent to seek her 

child; 
And when be felt the silence of his house 
About him, and the change and not the 

chanffe, 831 

And those Sxt eyes of painted ancestors 
Staring for ever from their gilded walls 
On him their last descendant, his own head 
Began to droop, to fall. The man became 
Imbecile; his one word was ' desolate.' 
Dead for two years before his death was 

he; 
But when the second Christmas came, es- 
caped 
His keepers, and the silence which he felt, 
To find a deeper iu the narrow gloom 840 
By wife and child; nor wanted at his end 
The dark retinue reverencing death 
At golden thresholds; nor from tender 

hearts, 
And those who sorrowed o'er a yanish'd 

race, 
Pity, the violet on the tyrant's grave. 
Then the great Hall was wholly broken 

down, 
And the broad woodland parcell'd into 

farms; 
And where the two contrived their daugh- 
ter's good. 
Lies the hawk's cast, the mole has made his 

run, 
The hedgehog underneath the plantain 

bores, 850 

The rabbit fondles his own harmless face. 
The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel 

there 
Follows the mouse, and all is open field.^ 



SEA DREAMS 



This poem was first 
Magazine ' for January, 1860, and 
included in the * Enoch Aiden' volmiia. 

' The grace of the poem,* says the * Qwrterij 
Review,* ' is equalled by the wimuQg kiadli- 
neas of it.* Stedman eaUs it ' a poem of mea- 
sureless satire and mneh idyllie beauty.' 



A ciTT clerk, but gently bom and bred; 
His wife, an unknown artist's otpliaa 

child — 
One babe was theirs, a Margaret, tinea 

years old. 
They, thinking that her clear germander 

ejre 
Droopt m the giant-factoried city-gloom. 
Came, with a month's leave given them. If 

the sea; 
For which his gains were doek'd, howefti 

small. 
Small were his gains, and hard his mtk 

besides. 
Their slender household fortunes — for thi 

man 
Had risk'd his little — like the litUe thrift 
Trembled in perilous places o'er a deep. 
And oft, when sitting all alone, his face 
Would darken, as he cursed his creduloos 

ness. 
And that one unctuous mouth which luret 

him, rogue, 
To buy strange shares in some Peruviat 

mine. 
Now seaward-bound for health they gain'q 

a coast. 
All sand and cliff and deep-inrunning cave^ 
At close of day; slept, woke, and went iha 

next, 
The Sabbath, pious variers from the church. 
To chapel; where a heated pulpiteer, ao 
Not preaching simple Christ to simple 

men, 
Announced the coming doom, and fulmi- 

nated 
Against the Scarlet Woman and her creed. 
For sideways up he swung his arms, and 

shriek'd 
'Thus, thus with violence,' even as if he 

held 
The Apocalyptic millstone, and himself 
Were that great angel; *Thns with vio- 
lence 
Shall Babylon be cast into the sea; 



SEA DREAMS 



Hi 



tbeeloM.' TIm genUe-bearted 



fiiiikadderiiigat the rain <tf a world, jo 
fit al kb owb; bot wlien Um wordy storm 
Bid flttdad, forth tbey oame and paced the 



B«ia aad o«l the long lea-framing caTet, 
Dmk the laife air, and saw, but loarce 

believad — 
TW wot'ttakir of so many a sammer still 
Ckif to their fancies — that thej saw, tiie 

8a B0V on sand they walk'd, and now on 

diff, 
Ijifning about the thTmy promontories, 
niiU the sails were darken'd in the west, 
kd fossd in the east, then homeward and 

tobed; 40 

Wkm ike, who kept a tender Christian 

hope, 
BsHtiaf a holT text, and still to that 
l^ i t wiiii it u the bird returns, at night, 
*Ut not the snn go down upon your 

wiath,' 
W, 'Love, forgiye him.' Buthedidnot 



kd mkattd by that silence lay the wife, 
liMaibering her dear Lord who died for 

in, 
Aii mmiag 00 the little liTet oi men, 
M kow they mar this little by their 



ht while the two were sleeping, a full 
tide so 

MM with ground -swell, which, on the 
isremost rocks 

Miilisg^ npjetted in spirts of wild sea- 
amke, 

^Msled in sheets of wasteful foam, and 

T^ l ea e a taracts — ever and anon 
IM ehms ol thunder from within the 

cliffs 
«ini thro' the liring roar. At this the 

liar Margaret cradled near them, wail'd 

and woke 
ui iwlher, and the father suddenly cried, 
'A wreck, a wreck 1 ' then tunrd and 

groaning said: 

'Fotgire I How many will say, * for- 
give,'' and find 60 
iaortof aheolutiooin the sound 



To hate a little longer I No; the sin 
That neither God nor man can well for- 



Te, 



Hypocrisy, I saw it in him at once. 

Is it so true that second thoughts are best? 

Not first, and third, which are a riper 

first? 
Too ripe, too late I they come too late for 



Ah, lore, there surely lives in man and 

beast 
Something divine to warn them of their 

foes; 
And such a sense, when first I fronted him, 
Said, ** Trust him not; " but after, when I 

came 71 

To know him more, I lost it, knew him 

less. 
Fought with what seem'd my own un- 

charity. 
Sat at his table, drank his costly wines. 
Made more and more allowance for hit 

talk; 
Went further, fool I and trusted him with 

•u, 

All my poor scrapings from a doien years 
Of dust and desk-work. There is no such 

mine, 
None; but a gulf of ruin, swallowing gold. 
Not making. Ruin'd I ruin'd 1 Uie sea 

roars &> 

Rain — a fearful night I ' 

< Not fearful; fair,' 
Said the good wife, * if every star in heaven 
Can make it fair; you do but hear the tide. 
Had you ill dreams ? ' 

* O, yes,' he said, ' I dream'd 
Of such a tide swelling toward the land. 
And I from out the boundless outer deep 
Swept with it to the shore, and enter'd one 
Of those dark caves that run beneath the 

cliffs. 
I thought the motion of the boundless deep 
Bore thro' the cave, and I was heaved upon 
it 90 

In darkness; then I saw one lovely star 
Larger and larger. '* What a world," I 

thought, 
** To live in ! " but in rooring on I fonnd 
Only the landward exit of tiM cave, 
Bright with the sun upon the stream be- 
yond; 
And near the light a giant woman sat. 



«S4 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



All oyer earthy, like a piece of earth, 
A piokaxe in her hand. Then oat I slipt 
Into a land all sun and blossom, trees 
As high as heaven, and every bird that 

sings; too 

And here the night-light flickering in my 

eyes 
Awoke me.' 

* That was then your dream,' she said, 
' Not sad, but sweet' 

* So sweet, I lay,' said he, 
' And mused upon it, drifting up the stream 
In fancy, till i slept again, and pieced 
The broken vision; for I dream'd that 

stiU 
The motion of the great deep bore me 

on. 
And that the woman walk'd upon the 

brink. 
I wonder'd at her strength, and ask'd her 

of it. 
" It came,'* she said, '' by working in the 

mines." no 

O, then to ask her of my shares, I thought; 
And ask'd; but not a word; she shook her 

head. 
And then the motion of the current ceased. 
And there was rolling thunder; and we 

reach'd 
A mountain, like a wall of burs and thorns; 
But she with her strong feet up the steep 

hill 
Trod out a path. I followed, and at top 
She pointed seaward; there a fleet of glass. 
That seem'd a fleet of jewels under me. 
Sailing along before a gloomy cloud iso 
That not one moment ceased to thunder, 

past 
In sunsfiine. Right across its track there 

lay, 
Down in the water, a long reef of gold, 
Or what seem*d gold; and I was glad at 

first 
To think that in our often-ransack'd world 
Still so much gold was left; and then I 

fear'd 
Lest the gay navy there should splinter 

on it, 
And fearing waved my arm to warn them 

oflf; 
An idle signal, for the brittle fleet — 
I thought I could have died to save it -— 

near'dt 130 



Touch'd, clink'd, and clash'd, and vaaidi'd 

and I woke, 
I heard the clash so clearly. Now I 
My dream was Life, the woman 

Work, 

And my poor venture but a fleet of gliM 
Wreck d on a reef of visionary gd^ 

* Nay,' said the kindly wife to oomlbi 

him, 
* You raised your arm, yon tumbled dow 

and broke 
The glass with little Margaret's modicia 

in it; 
And, breaking that, yon made and braJb 

your dream. 
A trifle makes a dream, a trifle breaks.' 141 

< No trifle,' groan'd the husband; ' yelt0^ 

day 
I met him suddenly in the street, and •ik'd 
That which I ask'd the woman in my dretn. 
Like her, he shook his head. *' Sliow ■• 

the books I " 
He dodged me with a long and loose as* 

count. 
** The books, the books !" but be, heeoold 

not wait, 
Bound on a matter he of life and death; 
When the great Books — see Daniel lefiB 

and ten — 
Were open'd, I should flnd he meant 90 

well; Ml 

And then began to bloat himself, and 0010 
All over with the fat affectionate smile 
That makes the widow lean. *' My desnit 

friend. 
Have faith, have faith I We live by faithf 

said he; 
** And all things work together for tht 

good 
Of those " — it makes me sick to qaolC 

him — last 
Gript my hand hard, and with God-blea* 

you went. 
I stood like one that had received a blow. 
I found a hard friend in his loose aoeoontl^ 
A loose one in the hard g^p of his hand, 
A curse in his Grod-bless-yon; then nq 

eyes 16 

Pursued him down the street, and fu 

away. 
Among the honest shoulders of the erowd, 
Read rascal in the motions of his back. 
And scoundrel in the supple-sliding 



SEA DREAMS 



^SS 



* Wm Im to boimdy poor foul ? ' said the 

good wife; 
*8tm fPe all; bat do not eall him, love, 
hkn joa prove him, rogae, and proved, 

fofviTe- 
Si'iui It loat; for he that wrongs hiB 

friead 
Wn^fi himaelf mn% and ever bears 



A aliit eoui of jostioe in his breast, 170 
Bbntf the judge and jury, and himself 
IWprisoDer at the bar, ever condemn 'd. 
lid tiait drags down his life; then oomes 

whatoomes 
flnsfter; and ho meant, he said he meant. 
Mips be meant, or partly meant, you 

welL' 



**With all bis eonscienoe and one eye 
adww'' — 
hm, let me qnote these lines, that you 



A Bss is likewise coonsel for himself, 
IWifleB, IB that silent court of yours — 
*With an his eonseience and one eye 
sskew, 180 

SiIiIn, ho partly took himself for tme; 
WkaM pious talk, when most his heart was 

lUi vet the erafty crowsf oot round his eye ; 
Wko^ atver naming God except for gain, 
8i itvtr took that useful name in vain, 
lUi Him Ua catspaw and the Cross his 

tool, 
AiiChrist tbe bait to trap his dnpe and 

iv deeds oi gift, but gifts of grace he 

forged, 
^ fiske-lika slimed his victim ere he 

gorged; 
iM oft at Bible meetings, o'er the rest 190 
Abw, did his holy oily best, 
MiMtf the too rough H in Hell and 

^aven, 
Toipnad the Word by which himself had 

thrtven. 
Bi» like yoa this old satire ? ' 

* Nay/ she said, 
'Ikilhe it; he had never kindly heart, 
Bwtver eared to better his own kind, 
WW irst wrote satire, with no pity in it. 
hd vin yoQ hear my dream, for I had one 
Hit altogether went to mnsio ? Still 
bivid 



Then she told it, having dream'd 
Of that same coast. — 



But round the North, .1 light, 
A belt, it seem'd, of luminous vapor, lay. 
And ever in it a low musical note 
Swell'd up and died; and, as it swell'd, a 

ridge 
Of breaker issued from the belt, and still 
Grew with the growing note, and when the 

note 
Had reaoh'd a thunderous fulness, on those 

clifEs 
Broke, mist with awful light — the same as 

that 
Living within the belt — whereby she saw 
That all those lines of cliffs were cliffs no 

more, a 10 

But huge cathedral fronts of every age, 
Grave, florid, stem, as far as eye could see, 
One after one; and then the great ridge 

drew. 
Lessening to the lessening music, back. 
And past into the belt and swell'd acain 
Slowly to music. Ever when it broke 
The statues, king, or saint, or founder 

fell; 
Then from the gaps and chasms of ruin 

left 
Came men and women in dark clusters 

round. 
Some crying, ' Set them up ! they shall not 

fall ! ' 3K> 

And others, < Let them lie, for they have 

fallen.' 
And still they strove and wrangled; and 

she grieved 
In her strange dream, she knew not why, 

to find 
Their wildest wailings never out of tune 
With that sweet note; and ever as their 

shrieks 
Ran highest up the gamut, that great wave 
Returmng, while none mark*d it, on the 

crowd 
Broke, mixt with awful light, and show'd 

their eyes 
Glaring, and passionate looks, and swept 

away 
The men of flesh and blood, and men of 

stone, 330 

To the waste deeps together. 

*ThenIflxt 
I My wistful eyes on two fair images, 



2S6 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Both crown'd with stan and high among 

the Stan, — 
The Virgin Mother standing with her child. 
High up on one of those dark minster- 

mmts — 
Till she began to totter, and the child 
Clung to the mother, and sent oat a ciy 
Which mizt with little Margaret's, and I 

woke. 
And my dream awed me; — well — but 

what are dreams? 
Yours <»me but from the breaking of a 

p;la88, 240 

And mme but from the crying of a child.' 

'Child? No !' said he, «bnt this tide's 

roar, and his. 
Our Boanerges with his threats of doom 
And loud-lung'd Antibabylonianisms — 
Altho' I grant but little music there — 
Went both to make your dream; but if 

there were 
A music harmonizing our wild cries, 
Sphere- music such as that you dream'd 

about. 
Why, that would make oar passions far too 

like 
The discords dear to the musician. No — 
One shriek of hate would jar all the hynms 

of heaven. 251 

True devils with no ear, they howl in tune 
With nothing but the devil ! ' 

•"True** indeed! 

One of our town, but later by an hour 

Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the 
shore; 

While you were running down the sands, 
and made 

The dimpled flounce of the sea -furbelow 
flap, 

Good man, to please the child. She brought 
strange news. 

Why were you silent when I spoke to- 
night ? 259 

I had set my heart on your forgiving him 

Before you knew. We must forgive the 
dead.' 

«Dead! who is dead?* 

« 

* The roan your eye pursued. 
A little after yon had parted with him. 
He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.' 



<Dead? he? of 

heart had he 

Todieof? deadi' 



heazt- disease? 



* Ah, dearest, if the 
A devil in man, there is an angel too, 
And if he did that wrong yoa ehaige 

with. 
His angel broke his heart Bat your z 

voiee — 
You spoke so load — has rooaed the 

a^n. 
Sleep, little birdie, sleep ! will she 

sleep 
Without her •* litUe birdie " ? well, 

sleep. 
And I will sing yoa ** birdie." ' 

Saying 
The woman half tum'd round from 

she loved. 
Left him one hand, and reaching thrc 

night 
Her other, f oond — for it was dose besi 
And half -embraced the bosket er 

head 
With one soft arm, which, like the f 

boogh 
That moving moves the nest and nes< 

sway d 
The cradle, while she sang this baby-64 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 
Let me fly, says little biidie. 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger, 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby 8a3r8, like little biidie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby, sleep a little longer. 
Till the little limbs are stronger; 
If she sleens a little longer. 
Baby too shall fly away. 

* She sleeps; let us too, let all evil, a 
He also sleeps — another sleep than on 
He can do no more wrong; forgive 

dear, 
And I shall sleep the sounder I ' 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 



«S7 



Then the man, 
*Hii dtedi yet liTe* the wont is yet to 



301 



Tii let yoqr sleep for this one night be 



Ido 



himl 



* Thanks, mj love,' she said, 
■Ton own will be the sweeter,' and they 
•Ispt 



ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING 
OF THE INTERNATIONAL EX- 
HIBITION 




Ml nnicm appearMi in * Frawr's Magazine/ 
i« Jim, 1882. 

A Qiwk tnuMlatioD of the Ode, signed 
W.a(X, appealed in the * Timet,' July 14, 
1MB (vhea Uie originAl poem was reprinted 
vitkmon that called forth a letter from the 
piH It the editor) ; and a Latin Terse trans- 



UniTT a thousand Toices fnll and sweet, 
la this wide hall with earth's invention 

itored. 
Aid praise the inTisible universal Lord, 
Wko iHs oooe more in peace the nations 
meet, 
WWe Scienoe, Art, and Labor have ont- 
^ poor'd 
IWir myriad horns of plenty at our feet. 

n 

dent ftither of our Rings to be, 
Mfft'd in this golden hour of jubilee, 
'« tUi, for all, we weep our thanks 
theel 

m 

Ue worid^^ompelling plan was thine, — 
Aad, lo I the Ions laborious miles 
Of FUaee; lo ! the giant aisles, 
Ktk m model and design; 
Btffsst-tool and husbandry, 
Imoi and wheel and enginery, 
Bmels ol the sullen mine, 
test and gold, and com and winOi 
Faktie fon^ or fiury-fine, 



Sunny tokens of the Line, 

Polar marvels, and a feast 

Of wonder, out of West and East, 

And shapes and hues of Art divine I 

All of beauty, all of use, 

That one fair planet can produce, 

Brouffht from nnder every star. 
Blown from over everv main. 
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, 

The works of peace with works of 

IV 

Is the goal so far away ? 

Far, how far no tongue can say, 

Let us dream our draam to-day. 



O ye, the wise who think, the wise who 

reign, 
From growing Commerce loose her latest 

chain. 
And let the fair white-wing'd peacemaker 

fly 
To happy havens under all the sky, 
And mix the seasons and the golden 

hours; 
Till each man find his own in all men's 

good, 
And all men work in noble brotherhood. 
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed 

towers, 
And ruling by obeving Nature's powers, 
And gaUierinff all the fruits of earth and 

crown'd with all her flowers. 



A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA 

MARCH 7, 1863 

Written on the arriral of the Princess Al- 
exandra in England just before her marriage 
to the Prince of Wales on the 10th of March, 
ISGii ; published separately the same month ; 
and afterwards included in the * Enoch Arden * 
volume. Thackeray, in the *Comhill Maga- 
^Mf* compared the poem to the waring of a 
pine-tree torch 00 a windy he ad lsnH 



SxA-KUiQS' daughter from over the sea, 

Alexandra! 
Saxon and Norman and Dane are we. 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of 
thee, 

Alexandra I 



a5« 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Welcome her, thanden of fort and of fleet ! 
Welcome her, thundering cheer of the 

street I 
Welcome her, all things yoathfol and 

sweet, 
Scatter the bloasom onder her feet I 
Break, happy land, into earlier flowers I 
Make music, O bird, in the new -budded 

bowers! 
Blazon jour mottoes of blessing and prayer I 
Welcome her, welcome her, all that is 

ours 1 
Warble, O bugle, and trumpet, blare ! 
Flags, flatter out upon turrets and towers I 
Flames, on the windy headland flare ! 
Utter your jubilee, steeple and spire ! 
Clash, ye bells, in the merry March air 1 
Flash, ye cities, in rivers of fire ! 
Rush to the roof, sudden rocket, and 

higher 
Melt into stars for the land's desire t 
Roll and rejoice, jubilant voice. 
Roll as a ground -swell dash'd on the 

strand. 
Roar as the sea when he welcomes the land. 
And welcome her, welcome the land's de- 
sire. 
The sea-kinfi^' daughter as happy as fair. 
Blissful bride of a blissful heir. 
Bride of the heir of the kings of the sea — 
O joy to the people and joy to the throne. 
Come to us, love us ana make us your 

own; 
For Saxon or Dane or Norman we. 
Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, 
We are each all Dane in our welcome of 

thee, 

Alexandra I 



THE GRANDMOTHER 

First printed in * Once a Week,' Jnly 16, 
1859, with the title, ' The Grandmother*8 Apo- 
logy/ and an illostration by Millais. 



And Willy, my eldest-bom, is gone, yon 

say, little Anne ? 
Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, 

be looks like a man. 
And Willy's wife has written; she never 

was over-wise. 
Never the wife for Willy; he would n't 

take my advice. 



n 

For, Annie, yon see, her father m» not tbe 
man to save. 

Had n't a head to manage, and dzank him- 
self into his grave. 

Pretty enough, very pretty I hot I was 
against it for one. 

£h 1 — but he would n't hear me — mad 
Willy, you say, is gone. 

HI 

Willy, my beanty, my eldest -bom, tbe 

flower of the flodc; 
Never a man could fling him, for WiDj 

stood like a rock. m 

' Here 's a leg for a babe of a week ! ' says 

Doctor; and he would be bound 
lliere was not his like that year in iwentj 

round. 



IV 

Strong of his hands, and strong on bis ]eg% 

but still of his tongue I 
I ought to have gone before him; I wonder 

he went so young. 
I cannot cry for him, Annie; I have not 

long to stay. 
Perhi^ I shall see him the sooner, for he 

lived far away. 



Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think 

I am hard and cold; 
But all my children have gone before me, 

I am so old. 
I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep 

for the rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept 

with the best. » 

VI 

For I remember a quarrel I had with yoor 

father, my dear, 
All for a slanderous story, that cost me 

many a tear. 
I mean your grandfather, Annie; it cost 

roe a world of woe. 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy 

years ago. 

VII 

For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the 
plaoe, and I knew right well 

That Jenny had tript in her time; I knew, 
but I would not tell. 



THE GRANDMOTHER 



»59 



hmd she to be coming and slandering me, 

tin boM little bar 1 
fitft tho toogve it a fire, as joa knowi mj 

dear, the tongiie is a fiie. 

vm 

Jkad the paisoD made it bis text that week, 

and he said likewise 
Tbst a lie which is half a truth is ever the 

blaekest of lies, 30 

Tbsts lie which is all a He may be met and 

fought with oatright, 
Bits lie which is part a truth is a harder 

natter to fight 

IX 

Aid WlDj had not been do#n to the farm 

for a week and a day; 
isi lU thiap look'd half-dead, tho' it was 

the middle of Majr. 
imaj, to slander me, who knew what 

Jennj had been 1 
Bit tolling another, Annie, will never 

flttke oneself clean. 



isi leried mjself well-nigh blind, and all 

of an CTening late 
I dmb'd to the top of the garth, and stood 

bj the road at the gate. 
Hi Boon like a rick on fire was rising 

orer the dale, 
Aai whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside 

Bs ehirrupt the nightingale. 40 

XI 

Al rf s sadden he stopt ; there past by the 

fite of the farm 
W%,^he didn't see me, — and Jenny 

hang on his arm. 
te iaio toe road I started, and spoke I 

searee knew how; 
ikb there *s no fool like the old one — it 

makes me angry now. 

XII 

WDly stood up like a man, and look*d the 
thmg that he meant; 

Jbay, the riper, made me a mocking curt- 
sey and went. 

iii I said, * Let us part; in a hundred 
years it 11 all be the same. 

In «UHWi lore me at all, if yon love not 
my good name.' 



xin 

And he tum'd, and I saw his oyes all wet, 

in the sweet moonshine: 
' Sweetheart, I loye you so well that your 

good name is mine. 50 

And what do I care for Jane, let her speak 

of you well or ill; 
But marry me out of hand; we two shall be 

happy still.' 

XTV 

' Marry you, Willy ! ' said I, ' but I needs 

must speak my mind. 
And I fear you 11 listen to tales, be jealous 

and hard and unkind.' 
But he tum'd and daspt me in his arms, 

and answer'd, ' No, loye, no; ' 
Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy 

years ago. 

XV 

So Willy and I were wedded. I wore a 
luao gown; 

And the ringers rang with a will, and he 
gave the ringers a crown. 

But the first that ever I bare was dead be- 
fore be was bom; 

Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, 
flower and thorn. 60 

XVI 

That was the first time, too, that ever I 

thought of death. 
There lay the sweet little body that never 

had drawn a breath. 
I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had 

been a wife; 
But I wept like a child that day, for the 

babe had fought for his life. 

XVII 

His dear little face was troubled, as if with 

anger or pain; 
I look'd at the sUll little body — his trouble 

had all been in vain. 
For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him 

another mom; 
But I wept like a child for the child that 

was dead before he was bom. 

XVIII 

But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he 

seldom said me nay. 
Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, 

would have his way; jm 



fl6o 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Neyer jealous — not he. We had man j a 

happy year; 
And he duedy and I coold not weep — mj 

own time seem'd 8o near. 

SIX 

Bat I wnVd it had been God's wOl that I, 

too, then could haye died; 
I began to be tired a little, and fiun had 

slept at his side. 
And that was ten years baok, or more, if I 

don't forget; 
But as to the children, Annie, they 're all 

aboat me yet 



Pattering oyer the boards, my Annie who 

left me at two. 
Patter she goes, ray own little Annie, an 

Annie like yon; 
Pattering over the boards, she comes and 

eoes at her will. 
While Harry is in the flye-acre and Charlie 

ploughing the hilL 80 

XXI 

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too 

— they sing to their team; 
Often they come to the door in a pleasant 

kind of a dream. 
They come and sit by my chair, they hover 

about my bed — 
I am not always certain if they be alive or 

dead. 

XXII 

And yet I know for a truth there 's none of 
them left alive, 

For Harry went at sixty, your father at 
sixty-five; 

And Willy, my eldest-bom, at nigh three- 
score and ten. 

I knew them all as babies, and now they 're 
elderly men. 

XXIII 

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often 

I grieve; 
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's 

farm at eve ; 90 

And the neighbors come and laugh and 

gossip, and so do I; 
% find myself often laughing at things that 

have long gone by. 



To be sure the preacher lays, on 

should make ns sad; 
But mine is a time of peace, and th 

Grace to be had; 
And God, not man, is the Judge of 

when life shall cease; 
And in this Book, little Annie, the mi 

is one of peace. 

XXV 

And age is a time of peace, so it hi 

from pain. 
And happy has been my life; but I 

not live it again. 
I seem to be tired a little, that 'a al 

long for rest; 
Only at your age, Annie, I could havi 

with the best 

XXVI 

So Willy has gone, my beauty, my c 

bom, my flower; 
But how can I weep for Willy, he hi 

gone for an hour, — 
Gone for a minute, my son, from this 

into the next; 
I, too, shall go in a minute. What 

have I to be vext ? 

xxvn 

And Willy's wife has written, she 

was over-wise. 
Get me my glasses, Annie; thank Grot 

I keep my eyes. 
There is but a trifle left you, when 1 

have past away. 
But stay with the old woman now; yoi 

not have long to stay. 



NORTHERN FARMER 

OLD STYLE 

The 'Northern Farmer, Old Style,' ap] 
in the ' Enoch Arden ^ Tolnme, 18&I 
* Northern Farmer, New Style,* in the 
Grail * volume, 1870. 

Stopford Brooke (' Tenn3r8on.* Londcm, 
says of it : * It is a vi\nd piece out of the 
comedy of man, not of its mere mirth, 
that elemental hnmoronsneas of thin^ 
belongs to the lives of the brutes as wel 



NORTHERN FARMER, OLD STYLE 



a6i 



tltady oaaiatMn of the aneieiit 

mrik mi all who mn bom of her, which first 
■nil ■« Hiile, end whkh has enahled us to 
Inr Mrpea better, end to hire one another 

MRftkiB mi|^ '^X"*' P^**"^^ ^ * world 
ikm Natue geBeraily aeems to be doinfl^ her 
hHiikirt m fist, and then to kill ns. . . . 
Hm aevar waa a more anparbly hewn piece 
if nmh Mid vital aoalptwa/ 



Wim'aata bein Mw long and meftliggin' 

'erealoin? 
liineT tboort nowt o* a noorae; whoy. 

Doctor 'a abein an* agoto; 
8^1 that I mdnt 'a naw moor aiile, but I 

balntafool; 
Qkmk mj alle, for I bettnt a-gawin' to 

bwttmy rule. 

n 

Pwlflfi, ttey knawa nowt, fnraiayi what *b 

aawwara troe; 
KMriooft o^ koind o' oae to aafty the thinga 

thatado. 
I *?• 'ad my point o* aiile iyiy noight ain* I 

bcln era* 
Ai'I'fe 'ed my qoart iyiy market-aoight 

for loorty year. 

m 

ham *B a beia loikewoi8e,an* a sittin' ere 

c^my bed. 
«1W Amoia;hty 'a a taakin o* yoa> to *iaa6i, 

my nicod,* a aaid, 
ii* a towd ma m^ aina, an' 'a toitho were 

due, an' I ned it in bond; 
I tea moy dnty boy 'um, aa I 'a done boy 



the 



IV 



lan'd a ma' beL I reokona I 'annot aa 

mooeh to lam. 
Bkit a eaat oop, thot a did, IxNit Beaay 

Marria'a bame. 
Thaw a knawa I hallna yoited wi' Sqooire 

an' choorch an' ataate, 
la' r the wooat o' toimea I wnr nirer agin 



la' I halloa ooom'd to '3 obooroh aloor moy 

Sally wnr dead, 
Aaf 'eiffd um a bammin' awaiiy loike a 

bvBard-elock ' owcr my 'ead, 



An' I niYer knaw'd whot a mean'd bat I 
thowt a 'ad anmmat to aaay, 

An' I thowt a aaid whot a owt to 'a aaii 
an' I ooom'd awaiiy. 

VI 

Bmtj Marria'a bame I tha knaws she 

it to mea. 
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for ahe war a bad 

nn, aheiL 
'Siver, I kep 'am, I kep 'am, my laaa, tha 

man underatond; 
I done moy daty boy 'am, aa I 'a done boy 

the loud. 

vn 

Bat Faraon a oooma an' a goKs, an' a aaya 

it eiay an' freeii: 
' The Amoiffbty 'a a taakin o' yoa to 'iaa^n, 

my mend,' aaya 'ea. 
I weMnt aaa^ men be loiara, thaw anmman 

aaid it in 'aMate; 
Bat 'e reida wonn aarmin a weeak, an' I 'a 

atnbb'd Thamaby waiste. 

vm 



^mmimiomr. 



* Cockchafer. 



D'ya moind the waaate, my laaa? naw, 

naw, tha was not bom then; 
Theer war a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'am 

myatfn; 
Moist loike a batter>bamp,* far I 'eXrd 'am 

aboat an' aboat. 
Bat I atabb'd 'am oop wi' the lot» an* raKred 

an' rembled 'am oat. 

DC 

Keeper's it war; fo' they fan 'nm theer 

a-laaid of 'is f aiioe 
Down i' the woild 'enemiea ^ afoor I ooom'd 

to the plaice. 
N<Mika or Thimbleby — toiner * 'ed ahot 

'nm aa dead aa a naail. 
N<Mika war 'ang'd for it oop at 'aobe ^bot 

git ma my aile. 



Dabbat looOk at the waiste; theer wan*l 

not feead for a cow; 
Nowt at all bat bracken an' fan, an' looifle 

at it now — 
Wam't worth nowt a haXere» an* now 

theer 's lota o' feeid, 
Foarsooor* yows apon it, an* aome 00 it 

down i' seeaa.* 



1 Bittern. < A 
* 9e aa in howr. 



^Oneor 
* Ckner. 



2&a 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



XI 

l^obbota bit oa it 'a left, an' Imean'd to 'a 

stnbb'd it at fall, 
Done it ta-jear I mean'd, an' nuin'd plow 

thmff it an' all, 
If Godamoifffatj an' panoo 'od nobbat let 

maaloan, — 
Mei, wi' baate boonderd haacre o' Sqnoiie's, 

an' lond o' my oan. 

xn 

Do Crodamoipbtj knaw wbat a 'a domg 
a-taakin' o' mea ? 

I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an' yon- 
der a pea; 

An' Sqnoire 'all be sa mad an' all — a' dear, 
a' dear I 

And I 'a managed for Sqnoire ooom 
* Micbaelmaa thntty year. 

xni 

A mowt 'a taSen owd JoSnes, as 'ant not a 

'al4x>tb o' sense, 
Or a mowt 'a taften yoang Robins — a niyer 

mended a fence; 
Bat Godamoigbty a moost tafike me& an' 

taake ma now, 
Wi' aftf the cows to canve an' Thamaby 

boilms to plow I 

XIV 

Loook 'ow qnoloty smoiles wben they see&s 

ma a passin' boy, 
Says to thessi^n, naw doabt, * What a man 

a be'a sewer-loy ! ' 
For they knaws what I be&n to Sqnoire sin' 

fust a coom'd to the 'AH; 
I done raoy duty by Sqnoire an' I done 

moy duty boy halL 

XV 

Sqnoire 's i' Lunnon, an' summon I reckons 

'nil 'a to wroite, 
For who& 's to howd the lond ater meH thot 

muddles ma quoit; 
Sartin-sewer I beH thot a wettnt niver give 

it to Joftnes, 
Naw, nor a mo'ant to Robins — a niTer rem- 

bles the stoans. 

XVI 

But summun 'uU come ater meft mayhap 

wi' 'is kittle o' steftm 
Hnzzin' an' maftzin' the blessed fealds wi' 

the divil's oiin teHm. 



Sin' I man doy I man doy, thaw loifs thegr 

says is sweet, 
Bat sin' I man doy I man doy, lor I eooldn 

abeir to see it 

xvn 

What atta stannin' theer for, an' doen 

bring ma the aMle ? 
Doctor 's a 'toftttler, lass, an a's hallas V 

the owd taSle; 
I wei&nt bre&k rales fur Doctor, a knaws 

naw moor nor a floy; 
Git ma my aille, I tell tha, an' if I man daj 

I mnn doy. 



NORTHERN FARMER 



NEW STYLE 



Dosn't thon 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they 

canters awafty ? 
Propnt^, proputty, propntty — that 'a what 

I 'ears 'em saay. 
Proputty, proputty, proputty — Sam, thou 's 

an ass for thy pai'ns; 
Theer 's moor sense i one o' 'is legs, nor in 

all thy brains. 

n 

W<Mi — theer 's a craw to pluck wi' tha, 

Sam: yon 's parson's ouse — 
Dosn't thou knaw that a man mun be 

e&ther a man or a mouse ? 
Time to think on it then ; for thou 11 be 

twenty to wee&k.^ 
Proputty, proputty — woa then, woa — lei 

ma 'ear mys^n speak. 

Ill 

Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bein 

a-talkin' o* thee; 
Thou *s beILn talkin' to muther, an' she beftn 

a-tellin' it me. 
Thou '11 not marry for munny — thou 's 

sweet upo' parson's lass — 
Noft — thou 11 marry for luw — an' we 

boftth on us thinks tha an ass. 

IV 

Seeft'd her to-daay ^oSi by — SaAint's-daay 
— they was ringing the bells* 

She's a beauty, thou thinks — an' soft is 
scoors o' gells, 

^ This week. 



NORTHERN FARMER, NEW STYLE 



96$ 



Hm •■ 'm muimj an' all — wot's a 
beantj ? — the flower as blaws. 

Bit ptopottj, proputtj stioki, an' pxo- 
potfyy proputtj grawB. 



Mint be ttont;^ talike time. I knaws 

wImI maiilrfw tba aa mad. 
Wiia^ I eraftxed for the lasses mys^n 

wkeo I war a lad ? 
Bit I knaw'd a QuaiUcer feller as often 'as 

towd ma this: 
'OoKit tboa marry for mnnny, bat goll 

wbeer munny is I ' 

VI 

Ai' I went wheer mnnny war; an' thy 

mother eoom to 'and, 
Wi* kU o' mnnny laaXd by, an' a nicetish 

bit o' land. 
liiiybe she wam't a beauty — I niver giv 

ita tbowt — 
Bit wtm't she as good to cuddle an' kiss 

M a lass as 'ant nowt ? 

VII 

FuKo'f lass 'ant nowt, an' she weMnt 'a 
nowt when 'e ' s dead, 

Ifii be a ffUTness, lad, or summnt, and ad- 
dle ' her bread. 

Wbj ? far 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' weant 
nirer get hisR^n clear, 

As' 'e maide the bed as 'e ligs on af oor 'e 
eoom'd to the shere. 

VIII 

Aa' thin 'e eoom'd to the parish wi' lots o' 

Varsity debt, 
fltook to his taaXl they did, an' 'e 'ant got 

shnt on 'em yet. 
la' '• ligs on 'is hack i' the grip, wi' noi&n 

to lend ^m a shove, 
Wootie nor a far-welter'd * yowe; fur, 

Sammy, 'e married fur Inrr. 

IX 

Limr? what's Iutt? thoa can Iuvt thy 

lass an* 'er munny too, 
Ifsakin' 'em gmi togither, as they 'to good 

right to do. 



' ObitiMfte. ' Earn. 

■Or, fow-welter'd, — said of a aheep lying 
■I its baek in the f oxrow. 



Conldn I Iutt thy mnther hy eanae o' 'ar 

mnnny laalfd by ? 
Naay — fur I luTv'd 'er a vast sight moor 

fur it; reason why. 



Ay, an' thy mnther says thou wants t» 

marry the lass, 
Cooms of a gentleman bum; an' we boith 

on ns thinks tha an ass. 
WoJi then, proputty, wiltha? — an ass as 

near as mays nowt ^ — 
Woii then, wiltha ? dangtha I — the bees is 

as fell as owt.' 

XI 

Breiik me a bit o' the esh for hU 'eXd, lad, 

out o' the fence I 
Gentleman bum 1 what 's gentleman horn ? 

is it shillins an' pence ? 
PropnttT, proputty 's ivrything 'ere, an', 

Sammy, I 'm blest 
If it is n't the saame oop yonder, for them 

as 'as it 's the best 

XII 

Tis 'n them as 'as mnnny as breiikB into 

'ouses an' ste'als. 
Them as 'as coiits to their backs an' taikes 

their regular mettls. 
Noil, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer a 

meal 's to be 'ad. 
Taake my word for it, Sammy, the poor in 

a loomp is bad. 

XIII 

Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a 

beiin a laazy lot, 
Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' whin- 

iyer mnnny was got. 
Feyther 'ad ammost nowt; leistways 'ir 

mnnny was 'id. 
But 'e tued an' moil'd iss^n deiid, an' 'e die4 

a good nn, 'e did. 

XIV 

Loo5k thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beek 

cooms out by the 'ill I 
Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs 

oop to the mill; 

1 Makes nothing. 

* The flies are as fleree as aaythlng. 



964 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



An'I'il niBOop to the brig, an' that thou 11 


And all along the yallej, bj loek mod eaw 


live to see; 


and tree, 


And if thou mames a good on 1 11 leave 


The Toioe of the dead was a living ¥0109 to 


the land to thee. 


me. 



Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby I 

means to stick; 
Bnt if thoa marries a bad nn, 1 11 leave 

the land to Dick. — 
Coom oop, proputty, piopntty — that's 

what I 'ears 'im saay — 
Propntty, proputty, propatty — canter an' 

canter awaay. 



IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 

Written in September, 1861, but not pab- 
lished nntU 1864 in the ' Enoch Arden ' toI. 



Caatexetx is a beaotifnl Talley in the French 
Pyrenees. The viait of Tennjaon and Arthur 
Hallam to the place, here commemorated, took 
place in 1830. The date of the second risit 
has sometimes been given as 1862, but Arthur 
Hugh Clough's diary, in which he refeis to 
meeting Tennyson there, makes it 1861. Un- 
der date of September 1, at Mont Dore-les- 
Bains, he writes : * The Tennysons arrived at 
6.30 yesterday. Tennyson was here with Ar^ 
thur Hallam thirty-one yean ago, and really 
finds great pleasure in the place ; they stayed 
here and at Gauteretz. **CEnone/* he said, 
was written on the inspiration of the Pyrenees, 
which stood for Ida.* The poet probably wrote 
* two and thirty * in the veraes for the sake of 
euphony. ' I walked with one I loved one and 
thirty years ago * would have offended his sen- 
sitive ear. 

All alon^ the valley, stream that flashest 

white. 
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of 

the night. 
All along the valley, where thy waters 

flow, 
I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty 

years ago. 
All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day. 
The two and thirty years were a mist that 

rolls away; 
For all along the valley, down thy rocky 

bed. 
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of 

the dead, 



THE FLOWER 

First printed in the 'Bnoch Arden' 
and unaltered. 

The poem has been sapnoaed to have 

personal reference, bnt Lord Tennyion i>mi«i»lf 
assured me that it had not. According to the 
*' Memoir ' {nA. iL p. 10), he described it in Ui 
manuscript notes as * an nmveisal i^okf^na.' 

Once in a golden hour 

I cast to earth a seed. 
Upthere came a flower. 

The people aaid, a weed. 



To and fro they went 
Thro' my garden-bovrer. 

And muttering discontent 
Cursed me and my flower. 

Then it grew so tall 

It wore a crown of light, 

But thieves from o'er the wall 
Stole the seed by night; 

Sow'd it far and wide 
By every town and tower, 

Till all the people cried, 
' Splendid is the flower.' 

Read my little fable: 
He that runs may read. 

Most can raise the flowers now 
For all have got the seed. 

And some are pretty enough. 
And some are poor indeed; 

And now again the people 
Call it but a weed. 



REQUIESCAT 

First printed in the * Enoch Arden ' vdnme, 
and unaltered. 

Fair is her cottage in its place. 

Where yon bioad water sweetly, slowly 
glides. 



A DEDICATION 



a6s 




iteftlf from tbaieli to bMe 
ia the tliding tides. 

ftuier the, but ah, how ■oon to die I 
Hmr qoiet dieem of life this hour maj 



Bmt pcatefol being slowlj pesaee faj 
To •ease moie j^if eot peaoe. 



THE SAILOR BOY 

it Briated ia Um * Yietoria Rem' Cbriat- 
IWl (edited by BIim EmUyTaithfuU), 
iaeindad in the * Saooh Arden ' 




at dawa and, fired with hope. 
Shot o*er the teething harbor-bar, 
ad xeach'd the ship and caught the rope, 
And whistled to toe morning ttar. 



while he whittled long and loud 
Ua heard a fleroe mermaiden cry, 
O boji tho' thoa art joung and proud, 
I aee the plaoe where thou wilt lie. 



taads and yeastj surges mix 
eaves about the dreary bay, 
«B thy ribs the limpet sticks, 

~ IB thy heart the scrawl shall play.' 



* Fool,* he aatwer'd, * death is sure 
To those that stay and those that roam, 

Bot I will ncTermore endure 

To sit with empty hands at home. 



clings about my neck, 
erymff, ** Stay for shame; ** 
laTCs of death and wreck, — 
all to blame, they are all to 



My aistt 
[y&dMr 



<3od lielp me I saTO I take my part 
Of dai^r on the roaring sea, 

A derfl rises in my heart, 

Far woflse than any death to me.' 

THE ISLET 



nt nriated ia the * Enoch Arden * Tolume, 
aaattefsd. 



9 O whither, loye, shall we go, 
of sweet little summers or so ? * 
little wife of the singer said, 



On the day that follow'd the day she was 
wed, 

* Whither, O whither, bTc, shall we so ? ' 
And the singer shaking his curly head 
Turn'd as he sat, and struck the keys 
There at his right with a sudden crash, 
Singing, ' And shall it be over the seas 
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash. 
But a bcTy of Eroses apple-cheek'd. 

In a shallop of crystal lYory-beak'd ? 
With a satm sail of a ruby glow. 
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know, 
A mountain islet pointed and peak'd; 
Waves on a diamond shingle dash, 
Cataract brooks to the ocean run, 
Fairily-delicate palaces shine 
Mixt with myrtle and clad with rine. 
And oyerstream'd and silvery-streak'd 
With many a riyulet high against the sun 
The facets of the glorious mountain flash 
AboTc the Talleys of palm and pine.' 

< Thither, O thither, bye, let as ga' 

* No, no, no I 

For in all that exquisite isle, my dear. 
There is but one bird with a musical throat, 
And his compass is but of a single note, 
That it makes one weary to hear.' 

' Moek me not I mock me not I loye, let us 
go.' 

' No, loye, no. 

For the bud eyer breaks into bloom on th? 

tree. 
And a storm neyer wakes on the lonely 



And a worm is there in the lonely wood, 
That pieroes the liyer and blaokens the 

blood. 
And makes it a sorrow to be.' 



A DEDICATION 

AddrMsed to the poet*8 wife, and fiist 
printed in the * Enoch Arden * yolume. The 
only altermdon is in the sizth line, which origi- 
nally read : * and spite of praise and 



Dear, near and true, — no truer Time 

himself 
Can proye you, tho' he make ^oo eyermore 
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 



s66 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Shoots to the fall, — take this and pray 

that he 
Who wrote it, honoring yoor sweet fidth in 

him, 
May trost himself; and after praise and 

soom, 
As one who feels the immeasnrahle world. 
Attain the wise indifFerenoe of the wise; 
And after antunm past — if left to pass 
His antnnm into seeming-leafless days — 
Draw toward the long frost and longest 

night. 
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the froit 
Which m oar winter woodland looks a 

flower.^ 



EXPERIMENTS 

BOADICfiA 

Fiist pnhliihed in the * Enoch Aiden ' toI- 
Bme. Ijie only dumge tinoe made is in the 
19th line, wluch origmally read: 'There the 
hive of Roman liais wofship a glnttonoos em- 
peror-idioL' 

While about the shore of Mona those Ne- 

ronian legionaries 
Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the 

Druid and Druidess, 
Far in the East Boadio^ standing lof tUy 

charioted. 
Mad and maddening all that heard her in 

her fierce Yolubility, 
Girt by half the tribes of Britain, near the 

colony Cimuloddne, 
Yell'd and shriek'd between her daughters 

o'er a wild confederacy. 

' They that scorn the tribes and call us 

Britain's barbarous populaces, 
Did they hear me, would they listen, did 

they pity me supplicating ? 
Shall I heed them in their anguish ? shall 

I brook to be supplicated ? 
Hear, Icenian, Catieuchfanian, hear, Cori- 

tanian, Trinobant I 
Must their erer-ravening eagle's beak and 

talon annihilate us ? 
Tear the noble heart of Britain, leave it 

gorily quivering ? 

^ The fruit of the Spindle- tree (Euonymui 
Eunpceu$), 



Bark an answer, Britain's raven I bark 

blacken innumerable^ 
Blacken round the Roman carrion, 

the earcase a skeleton. 
Kite and kestrel, wolf and wdfkin, fvoai 

the wilderness, wallow in it. 
Tdl the face of Bel be farigfaten'd, T 

be propitiated. 
Lo their oolonv half -defended I lo 

colony, C^mulodiine I 
There the horde of Roman robbers moek 

at a barbarous adversary. 
There the hive of Roman liars worship an 

emperor-idiot. 
Such is Rome, and this her deity; hear it» 

Spirit of Citosivekiin I 

'Hear it, Gods I the Gods have heard it, 

O Icenian, O Coritanian t 
Doubt not ye tiie Gods have answer'd, 

Catienchlanian, Trinobant. 
These have told ns all their anger in mir- 

aculons utteranoes. 
Thunder, a flying fire in heaven, a mnrmnr 

heard agnail v. 
Phantom sound of blows descending, nsoan 

of an enemy massacred. 
Phantom wail of women and children, mul- 
titudinous agonies. 
Bloodily flow'd the Tamesa rolling phan- 
tom bodies of horses and men; 
Then a phantom colony smoulder'd on the 

refluent estuary; 
Lastly yonder yester^ven, suddenly giddily 

tottering — 
There was one who watch'd and told me — 

down their statue of Victory fell. 
Lo their precious Roman bantling, lo the 

colony Cibnulodiine, 
Shall we teach it a Roman lesson ? shall 

we care to be pitiful ? 
Shall we deal with it as an infant ? shall 

we dandle it amorously ? 

' Hear, Icenian, Catienchlanian, hear, 

Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
While I roved about the forest, long and 

bitterly meditating. 
There I heard them in the darkness, at the 

mystical ceremony; 
Loosely robed in fljring raiment, sang the 

terrible prophetesses: 
** Fear not, isle of blowing woodland, isle 

of silvery parapets ! 



EXPERIMENTS IN QUANTITY 



267 



1W tbe Roauui etgle shadow thee, tho' 
tb« gatheriitf enemy narrow thee, 
ihnlfc wax anahe ihall dwindle, thoa 
ihalt be the mightj one yet 1 
the UbeiCr, thine the fflory, thine the 
deeds to be eelebrated, 
IliM the myiiad-rolling ooean, light and 
ihadow iUimitabl^ 

''^ 'tJ^ *^p!r^ "'°'°"' "*"'* 

bMMMNning Jraradises, 
IhMthe North and thine the South and 

thine the battle-thunder of God." 
8* thej ehanted: how shall Britain light 

ttpon anguries happier ? 
Si thej chanted in the darkness, and there 

eooieth a Tictory now. 

'Hesr, Icenian, Catieuohlanian, hear, 
.Coritanian, Trinobant ! 
Ms ths wife of rich Prasdtagus, me the 

lorer of liberty, 
He thiy seised and me they tortured, me 

they lash'd and humiliated, 
Ms the nK»rt of ribald Veterans, mine of 

ruffian riolators 1 
8Mi thsT sit, they hide their faces, miser- 

sole in ignominy 1 
^^^Wiefore in me bums an anger, not by 

blood to be satiated. 
I^ the palaces and the temple, lo the col- 

ooy Cimuloddne 1 
^krs they ruled, and thence they wasted 

sll the flourishing territorr, 
^^ither at their will they haled the yellow- 

ringleted Britoness — 
Bloodily, bloodily fall the battle-axe, onex- 

bansted, inexorable. 
Skoit, Icenian, Catieuchlanian, shout, Cori- 

tanian, Trinobant, 
itn the Tictim hear within and yearn to 

hnrry precipitously, 
like the leat in a roaring whirlwind, like 

the smoke in a hurricane whirl'd. 
Lo the colony, there they rioted in the city 

of Cdnobellne 1 
Hiere they drank in cups of emerald, there 

at tables of ebony lay. 
Rolling on their purple couches in their 

tender effeminacy. 
There they dwelt and there they rioted; 
there — there — they dwell no more. 
Bust the gates, and bum the palaees, break 

the works of the statuary. 
Take the hoary Roman head and shatter it, 
hold it abominable, 



Cut the Roman boy to pieces in his lost 

and voluptuousness. 
Lash the maiden into swooning, me thej 

lash'd and humiliated. 
Chop the breasts from off the mother, dash 

the brains of the little one out, 
Up, my Britons ! on, my chariot 1 on, my 

chargers, trample them under us I ' 

80 the Queen BoKdic^ standing loftily 

charioted, 
Brandishing in her hand a dart and rolling 

glances lioness-like, 
Yell'd and ^hriek'd between her daughters 

in her fierce Tolubility. 
Till her people all around the royal chariot 

agitated, 
Madly dash'd the darts together, writhing 

barbarous lineaments, 
Made the noise of frosty woodlands, when 

they shirer in January, 
Roar'd as when the roaring breakers boom 

and blanch on the precipices, 
Yell'd as when the winds of wmter tear an 

oak on a promontory. 
So the silent colony, hearing her tumultu- 
ous adversaries 
Clash the darts and on the buekler beat 

with rapid unanimous hand, 
Thought on all her evil tyrannies, all her 

pitiless livarice. 
Till she felt the heart within her fall and 

flutter tremulously, 
Then her pnlses at the clamoring of her 

enemy fainted away. 
Out of evil evil flourishes, out of tyranny 

tyranny buds. 
Ran the land with Roman slaughter, mnl- 

titndinous agonies. 
Perish'd many a maid and matron, many a 

valorous legionary. 
Fell the colony, city, and citadel, Loodoe, 

Yerulam, ClUnuloddue. 



IN QUANTITY 

ON TRANSLATIONS OF HOMER 
(hexameters and pentameters) 

Tins and the three foUowiag ' ezperimeats 
in qnmntit J * appeared in the * Comhill Msga- 
tine' for Dwsember, 1863. This was not 
printed with the others in the ' Enoch Aidea* 



268 



ENOCH ARDEN, AND OTHER POEMS 



Tolome, but was finally indadad in the editioii 
of 1884. 

The 'Mflton' and the 'Hendeeaayllabiea* 
hai« not been altered. 

The ' Speeimen of a Translation of the Died 
in Blank V ene ' was prefused in the * Comhill 
Mng^""^ * with the following note : — 

^Dome, and among these one at least of oar 
best and greatest, haTs endeaTored to gvn ns 
the "Diad" in Eng;liah hexameters, and by 
what ^ipeaia to me their failorea hai« gone 
far to pioi« the impossibility of the task. I 
hai« long held by oar blank Tene in this mat- 
ter, and now after having spoken so d i srespec t - 
f^y here of t he se hexameters, I Tentore, or 
rather feel bonnd, to sabjoin a speeimen, how- 
erer brief and with whaterer demerits, of a 
blank Terse translation.* 

Thxsb lame hezameten the sttong-wing'd 
mosie of Homer 1 
No — bat a most borlesque barbaroos 
experiment. 
When was a harsher soand eTer heard, ye 
Moaea, in England ? 
When did a frog eoarser oroak upon oar 
Helicon ? 
Hexameters no worse than daring Germany 
gave OS, 
fiarbaroaa experiment, barbarous hexa- 
meters. 

MILTON • 

(ALCAICS) 

O miohtt-mouth'd inTentor of harmonies, 
O sldird to sing of Time or Eternity, 
God-gifted organ-voioe of England, 
Muton, a name to resound for ages; 
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, 
Starr'd from Jehoyah's gorgeoos armories. 
Tower, as lie deep-domed empyrean 
Rings to the roar of an angel onset 1 
Me rather all that bowery loneUness, 
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean. 
Where some refulgent sunset of India 
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
And crimaon-hned the stately palm-woods 
Whisper in odorous heights of even. 



(hbndbcasyllabics) 

O yon chorus of indolent reriewers, 
Irrissponsible, indolent reyiewers, 
Look, I oome to the test, a tiny poem 



AH oompoaed in a metre of Catnllna, 
All in quantity, careful of my m otioo. 
Like the akater on ioe that baidl j 

him. 

Lest I fall unawares befbie tiie ijeopla^ 
Wakine laughter in indolent reTiewers. 
Shoold 1 flounder awhile without a tnoilila 
Thro' this metrification <tf Catnllna, 
They should speak to me not without a 

welcome. 
All that chorus of indolent reWewera. 
Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tnmblab 
So fantastiod ia the dainty metre. 
Whei«f»ie digiit me not whcJly, nor bf 

lieTe me • 
Too presumptuous, indolent reTiewers. 
O blatant Msgaanes, regard me rather— 
Since I blnah to belaud myself amoment ^ 
As some rare little rose, a pieee of imnost 
Horticultund art, or half coquette-like 
Maiden, not to be greeted nnbenignly. 



SPECIMEN OF A TRANSLATION 
OF THE ILIAD IN BLANK 
VERSE 

[lUAD, vin. 542-561] 

So Hector spake; the Trojans roar'd ap- 
plause; 

Then loosed Uieir sweating horses from the 
yoke. 

And each beside his chariot bound his own; 

And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep 

In haste they drove, and honey-hearted 
wine 

And bread from out the houses brought, 
and heap*d 

Their firewood, and the winds from off tha 
plain 

Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven. 

And these all night upon the bridge^ of 



Sat glorying; many a fire before them 

blazed. 
As when in heaven the stars about the moon 
Look beautiful, when all the winds are 

laid. 
And every height comes out, and jutting 

peak 
And valley, and the immeasurable heavena 
Break open to their highest, and all the 

atacB 

^ Or, ridge. 



THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 



369 



mad the iheplieid gladdeni in his 



80 mmmfmf^ between the shipt and stream 
Of Xanthos biased before the towers of 




on tiie plain; and close by each 
fifty in the blase of burning fire; 
L eaftiaf hoaiy grain ana pulse the 
itoeds, 
FIzi hf their ears, waited the golden dawn. 

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852 

TUa posm Is out of three inspired by the 
eacitomea t in Kagland which followed the 
OMp d*Mtt of Lome Napoleon in Deoerober, 
lt«$L It wss ' a powerful rebuke to the Houae 
mi Loids for hsTmg depreeated the free eriti- 
asm eipreswiH in newspapen and in tpeeohee 
■fisst the aathor of that crime.* It appeared 
fai tho 'Eumiaer' for Febmary 7, 18o2, and 
WM eifBed* Merlin.* The ^triotio lyric, ' Hands 
all rovad,* wss printed in the same number 
of the * Esamiaer ; * and * Britons, ffuard your 
owrm,* ia the ptoeeding number (January 81, 
18fi2). 

The poem was first acknowledged and in- 
eleded m the ooUeoted worke in 1872. 

Mt Loids, we heard yon speak: yon told 
OS all 
That England's honest censure went too 

That oar free press should oease to brawl, 
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war. 
It was oar ancient privilege, my Ix>rd8, 
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into 
words. 

We lore not this Fkeneh God, the ohild <tf 
hell. 
Wild War, who breaks the converse of 
the wise; 
Bat thoagh we lore kind Peace so well. 

We dare not even by silence sanction lies. 
It might be safe our censures to withdraw. 
And yet, my Lords, not well; there is a 
higher law. 

As long as we remain, we must speak free, 
Tho all the storm of Europe on us break. 

Ko little Grerman state are we, 
But the one Toioe in Eorope; we mutt 
apoKBy 



That if to-night onr greatness were struck 

dead, 
There might be left some reoord of thf 

things we said. 

If YOU be fearful, then must we be bold. 
Our Britain cannot salve a tvrant o'er. 
Better the waste Atlantic roll'a 

On her and us and ours for evermore. 
What ! have we fought for Freedom from 

our prime. 
At last to dodge and palter with a public 
crime ? 

ShaU we fear kimt our own we never 

fear'd. 
From our first Charles by force we wrung 

our claims. 
FrickM by the Papal spur, we rear'd. 
Wo flung the burthen of the second 

tiames. 
I say, we nether fear'd 1 and as for these, 
We broke them on the land, we drove them 

on the seas. 

And you, my Lords, you make the people 
muse 
In doubt if you be of our Barons' breed ^~ 
Were those your sires who fought at 
Lewes? 
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ? 
O fallen nobility that, overawed. 
Would lisp in honey 'd whispers of this 
monstrous fraud ! 

We feel, at least, that silence here were 

sin. 
Not ours the fault if we have feeble 

hosts — 
If easy patrons of their kin 
Have left the last free race with naked 

coasts I 
They knew the precious things they had to 

guard; 
For us, we will not spare the tyrant one 

hard word. 

Tho* niggard throats of Manchester may 

What England was, shall her true sons 
forget? 
We are not cotton^inners all. 
But some love England and her honor 

yet 



2JO 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON 



And these in oar Thermopyl» thall stand, 
Jind hold against the world this honor of 
the liuid. 



A WELCOME TO HER ROYAL 
HIGHNESS MARIE ALEXAN- 
DROVNA, DUCHESS OF EDIN- 
BURGH 

MARCH 7, 1874 

Written to welcome Marie to England after 
her maRiage to the Dake of Edinbnigfa, Jaii- 
narj 23, 1874. Printed in the 'Timee/ and 
aftnwards inelnded in the oolleoted editkms. 



Ths Son of him with whom we stroye for 

power— 

Whose will is lord thro' all his world- 
domain — 
Who made the serf a man, and burst lus 
chain — 
Has given onr Prince his own imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandroma. 
And welcome^ Russian flower, a people's 
pride, 
To Britain, when her flowers begin to 

blow 1 
From love to love, from home to home 
you go, 
From mother unto mother, stately bride, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 

n 

The golden news along the steppes is 
blown. 
And at thy name the Tartar tents are 

stirr'd; 
Elbarz and all the Caucasus have heard; 
And all the sultry palms of India known, 

Alexandrovna. 
The voices of our universal sea 

On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent, 
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, 
And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee, 

Marie Alexandrovna ! 

in 

Fair empires branching, both, in lusty 
life I — 
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman 
swords; 



Yet thine own land has how'd to Tatitf 
hordes 
Sinea £>«l>di Huoid g»Ta its tfatoM » 
wife, 

Alezandromal 
For thronee and peoples are as waifs tluii 
swings 
And float or fid}, in aadkas ebb and 

flow; 
But who love best have best the gxaoe to 
know 
That Love by right divine is deathleaa 
king^ 

Marie Alexandrovna I 

TV 

And Love has led thee to the stranger 
land. 
Where men are bold and strongly say 

their say; — 
See, empire upon empire smiles to-day. 
As Uiotf witii thy yonng lover hand in hand, 

Alexandrovna 1 
So now thy fuller life is in the west. 
Whose hand at home was gracioua to thj 

poor; 
Thy name was blest within the narrow 
door; 
Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest, 

Marie Alexandrovna V 



Shall fears and jealous hatreds flame again ? 

Or at thy coming, Princess, everywhere. 

The blue heaven break, and some diviner 

air 

Breathe thro' the world and change the 

hearts of men, 

Alexandrovna ? 
But hearts that change not, love that can- 
not cease. 
And peace be yours, the peace of soul in 

soul ! 
And howsoever this wild world may roll. 
Between your peoples truth and manful 
peace, 

Alfred — Alexandrovna 1 



IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINS- 
TON 

Written in 1870, and first printed in the 
• Cabinet Edition/ 1874. 
Swainston was the seat of the late Sir John 



\ 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER 



271 



ffanutt,iiilK>Iila of Wight. Here the greater 
l!|n«f'llMd*WM written (Waugh). SurJohn 
)MatrUboiiigi]iSwitxeriaiidml870. The 
W| vw Woogkt home for burial, and thie 
Mi WW wxittfltt in the garden at Swainston 
Mff tibe weak that eliuMed before the fn- 
' 8Mthfe*Mainoir,*voLEp.97. 



HnnDNULis warbled withouty 

Witfoi was waepinff for thee; 
Skaiovi at three dead men 

Walk'd IB the walks with me, 

ttidows of three dead men, and thou 
wait one of the three. 

HttUunles sang in his woods, 

ibe Master was far away; 
Kkriitingales warbled and sang 

Of spassion that lasts bat a dav; 

Stfll m the house in his coffin the 



of courtesy lay. 

IW dead men baTC I known 

Is eoartesy like to thee; 
Two dead men have I loved 

With a love that ever will be; 

Three dead men have I loved, and thon 
arilast of the three. 



CHILD SONGS 

fint printed in *St NichoUe' (N. T.) for 
Febraarr, 1880. Set to music by Mrs. TeiuiT- 
mtm in toe tame nomber and that for Bfaroh, 
188a BefprfaBted hi the ooUeoted edition of 



I 



THE CITY CHILD 

Daivtt little maiden, whither would yon 
wander? 
Whither from this pretty home, the home 
where mother dwells ? 

* Far and far away,' said the dainty little 

maiden, 

• AD among the gardens, anricalas, anem- 

ones, 
Roses and lilies and Canterbury bells.' 

Dainty little maiden, whither wonld you 
wander? 
Whither from tins pretty house, this otiy- 
honse of ours? 



' Far rjid far away,' said the dainty little 

maiden, 
' All among the meadows, the eloYcr and 

the clematis, 
Daisies and kingcups and hooeysockle- 

flowcrs.' 



II 



MINNIE AND WINNIE 

MiKNiB and Winnie 

Slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies I 

And they slept welL 

Fink was the shell within. 

Silver without; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about 

Sleep, little ladies 1 

WfJke not soon I 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the mooo. 

Two bright stars 
Peep'a into the shelL 

* What are they dreaming oft 
Who can tell?' 

Started a men linnet 

Out of the croft; 
Wake, little bidies I 

The sun is aloft I 



THE SPITEFUL LETTER 

Contribnted to * Onoe a Week ' in January, 
1808, and reprinted in 1884. 

Attempts naTe been made to identify the 
writer of the letter ; but the poet wrote to the 
editor of 'Onoe a Week*: *It is no partienlar 
letter that I meant. I hare had doaens of 
them from one quarter and another.* 

Hers, it is here, the close of the year, 

And with it a spiteful letter. 
My name in song has done him mneh wrongs 

For himself has done much better. 

little bard, is your lot so hard. 
If men neglect your pages ? 

1 think not much of youn or of mhMf 
I hear the roll of the ages. 



^ja 



THE VICTIM 



Bhymes and rhymes in the range of the 
times ! 

Are mine for the moment stronger ? 
Xet hate me not, but abide your lot; 

I last but a moment longer. 

This faded leaf, onr names are as brief; 

What room is left for a hater 7 
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener 
leaf, 

For it hangs one moment later. 

Greater than I — is that yoor ery ? 

And men will live to see it. 
Well — if it be so — so it is, yon know; 

And if it be so, so be it. 

Brief, brief is a summer leaf, 
But this is the time of hollies.' 

O hollies and ivies and evergreens. 
How I hate the spites and the follies I 



LITERARY SQUABBLES 

Originally printed in ' Ponoh,' BCarch 7, 1&16, 
where it was entitled * After-thought' It was 
included, with its preaent title, in the ' Library 
Edition ' of the * Poems,* 1873-73. See p. 79L 

Ah God ! the petty fools of rhyme 
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars 

Before the stony face of Time, 
And look*d at by the silent stars; 

Who hate each other for a song. 
And do their little best to bite 

And pinch their brethren in the throng, 
And scratch the very dead for spite; 

And strain to make an inch of room 
For their sweet selves, and cannot hear 

The sullen Lethe rolling doom 

On them and theirs and all things here; 

When one small tonch of Charity 
Could lift them nearer Godlike state 

Than if the crowded Orb should cry 
Like those who cried Diana great. 

And I too talk, and lose the touch 

I talk of. Surely, after all. 
The noblest answer onto such 

Is perfect stillness when they brawL 



THE VICTIM 



of Sb 




Printed in 1887 at the priTate 
Ivor Bertie Guest, at Canfdfd ' 
Wimbome; oontribnted to * Good Words ' for 
January, 1868; and indnded in tins *Hfllj 
Qiail * volume, 187a 



A PLAGUE upon the people feD, 
A famine after laid them low; 
Then thorpe and byre arose in fire. 

For on them braJse the sodden foe; 
So thick they died the people eried, 

* The G<vls are moved against the land.* 
The Priest in horror about his altar 
To Thor and Odin lifted a hand: 
* Help ns from famine 
And plague and strife I 
What would you have of as ? 
Human life ? 
Were it our nearest, 
Were it our dearest, -^ 
Answer, O answer! — 
We give yon his life.' 

n 

But stiU the foeroan spoil*d and bnm'df 

And cattle died, and deer in wood. 
And bird in air, and fishes tnm*d 

And whiten'd all the rolling flood; 
And dead men lay all over the way. 

Or down in a furrow scathed with flame; 
And ever and aye the Priesthood moan*d. 
Till at last it seem'd that an answer 
came: 

'The King is hnppy 
In child and wife; 
Take you his dearest, 
Give us a life.' 

Ill 

The Priest went out by heath and hill; 

The King was hunting in the wild; 
They found the mother sitting still; 
She cast her arms about the child. 
The child was only eight summers old. 

His beauty still with his years increasedy 
His face was ruddy, his hair was gold; 
He seem'd a victim due to the priest* 
The Priest beheld him. 
And cried with joy, 
'The Gods have answer'd; 
We give them the boy.' 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 



273 



IV 

_ vetnm'd from ont the wild, 
He bote bnt little nme in hand; 

ioth«r nid, 'ftey have taken the 
•hud 
To apill his hlood and heal the land. 
rW laad ia tiek, the pecq^le diseased, 

Aad Uight and famine on all the lea; 
IVe holy Gods, they most he appeased, 
So I pny TOO tell the tmth to me. 
xhej haTe taken our son, 
They will hare his life. 
Is he Toor dearest ? 
Orl, the wife?' 



The King hent low, with hand on hrow, 

Ho stay'd his arms upon his knee: 
* O wifop what use to answer now ? 

For BOW the FHest has judged for me.* 
The Kimp was shaken with holy fear; 
* The Gods,' he said, ' would haye chosen 
weD; 
Tet both are near, and both are dear, 
Aad which the dearest I cannot tell I ' 
But the Priest was happy, 
His notim won: 
* We haye his dearest. 
His only son I' 

VI 

TW riles prepared, the Tictim bared. 
The knife nprising toward the blow. 
To the altar-stone she sprang alone: 

' Me, not my darling, no I 
Ho eeuht her awa^ with a sudden cry; 

Soddenly from him brake hip wife, 
Amd afarieking, * / am his dearest, I — 
/ am his dearest 1 ' msh'd on the knife. 
And the Priest was happy: 
« O Father Odin, 
We giTO yon a life. 
Which was his nearest ? 
Who was his dearest ? 
The Gods have answer'd; 
We giye them the wife I * 



WAGES 

CoBtrilmtad to ' MacmilUii's Magazine ' for 
r. laaS; and reprinted in the *Holy 



Globt of warrior, glory of orator, glory of 
song. 
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost 
on an endless sea — 
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to 
right the wrong — 
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover 
of elorv she; 
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. 

The wages of sin is death: if the wages of 

Virtue be dust. 
Would she have heart to endure for the 

life of the worm and the fly ? 
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet 

seats of the just. 
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in 

a summer sky; 
Give her the wages of going on, and not to 

die. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 
First published in the *Holy GraU' volume. 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the 

hills and the plains, — 
Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him 

who reigns ? 

Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that 

which He seems ? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we 

not live in dreams ? 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body 
and limb, 

Are they not sign and symbol of thy divi- 
sion from Him ? 

Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the 

reason why. 
For is He not all but thou, that hast power 

to f eeP I am I ' ? 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou 

fulftllest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams and a stifled 

splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him, thou, for He heart, and 
Spirit with Spirit can meet — 

Closer is He than oreathing, and nearer 
than hands and feat. 



«y4 



LUCRETIUS 



(jod is lawy say the wise; O Soul, and let 

ns rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is 

yet His yoioe. 

Law is Grod, say some; no God at all, says 

the fool. 
For all we have power to see is a straight 

staff bent in a pool; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the 

eye of man cannot see; 
Bat if we eoold see and hear, this Vision — 

were it not He ? 



THE VOICE AND THE PEAK 

Fint pabliahed in the ' Cabinet Editiim' of 
the 'Poems,' 1874. 

I 

Thb voice and the Peak 

Far over summit and lawn, 
The lone glow and long roar 

Green-rushing from the rosy thrones of 
dawn I 

n 

All night have I heard the voice 

Rave over the rocky bar, 
But thou wert silent in heaven. 

Above thee glided the star. 

Ill 

Hast thou no voice, O Peak, 

That standest high above all ? 
* I am the voice of the Peak, 

I roar and rave, for I f alL 

IV 

' A thousand voices go 

To North, South, East, and West; 
They leave the heip^hts and are troubled, 

And moan and sink to their rest. 



' The fields are fair beside them. 
The chestnut towers in his bloom; 

But they — they feel the desire of the 
deep — 
Fall, ana follow their doom. 

VI 

* The deep has power on the height. 
And the height has power on the deep; 



They are raised for ever and ever. 
And sink again into sleep.' 



vn 



Not raised for ever and ever. 
But when their cycle is o'er. 

The valley, the voice, the peak, the 
Pass, and are f oond no moce. 



vm 



The Peak is high and flosh'd 
At his highest with sunrise fire; 

The Peak is high, and the stars are high 
And the thought of a man is higher. 



IX 



A deep below the deep. 

And a height beyond the height I 
Our hearing is not hearing. 

And our seeing is not sight. 



The voice and the Peak 
Far into heaven withdrawn, 

The lone glow and long roar 
Green-rushing from the rosy 
dawn I 



thrones of 



Fiist pubUshed in the * Holy Grsil * volume 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand. 

Little newer — but if I could understand 

What YOU are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



LUCRETIUS 

First published in 'MacmiUan's Ifagazine^ 
for May, 1868, and afterwards included in the 
* Holy Grail ' volome of 1869. 

The story on which the poem is founded is 
taken from Jerome*s additions to the ' Erne* 
bian Chronicle,' under the year b- c. 94 : * Titos 
Lucretius poeta naacitur : postea amatorio po> 
culo in f urorem versus, com aliquot libellos per 
interralla insaniae oonscripsiBset, quoe postea 
Cicero emendavit, propria se manu interfeeit 
anno aetatis xliii.' 

LuciLiA, wedded to Lucretius, found 
Her master cold; for when the morning 
flush 



LUCRETIUS 



275 



Oi piMKMi and the first embrace had died 
B t tV ee i i theniy tho' he loved her none tho 

Ttt often when the woman heard his foot 
Beten from pacings in the field, and ran 
To Roet him with a kiss, the master tooh 
8sHil aotieey or austerely, for — his mind 
Hstf haried in some weightier argument. 
Or kMjAMmt perhaps upon the rise ' 10 
And loog roll of the hexameter — he past 
To ton and ponder those three hundred 

KTolls 
Loft hj the Teacher, whom he held divine. 
She brook'd it not, but wrathful, petulant, 
Dntmiiiff some rival, sought and found a 

witch 
Who brew'd the philtre which had power, 

they said. 
To Ind an errant passion home asain. 
Asd this, at times, she mingled with his 

drink. 
Aid this destroy*d him; for the wicked 

hroth 
Cflafoied the chemic labor of the blood, ao 
Asd tiekling the brute brain within the 

num's 
Midi havoc among those tender cells, and 

efaeck'd 
Hii power to shape. He loathed himself, 

sad once 
After s tempest woke upon a mom 
Ihst moek'a him wi^ returning calm, and 

cried: 

'Storm in the night I for thrice I heard 
the rain 
Bs eh ia g; and once the flash of a thunder- 
bolt— 
Ifohoaght I never saw so fierce a fork — 
Stnek out the streaming mountain-side, 

and show'd 
A liotoQS confluence of watercourses 30 
Kaaehtaff and billowing in a hollow of it. 
Where aU bat yester-eve was dusty-dry. 

'Slonn, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, 
what dreams f 
For thriee I waken'd after dreams. Per- 
chance 
Wie do but recollect the dreams that come 
Jist ere the waking. Terrible : for it seem'd 
A void was made in Nature; all her bonds 
Ciaek'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams 
And torrents of her myriad universe, 
BabiBf along the illimitable inane, 40 



Fly on to clash together again, and mako 

Another and another frame of things 

For ever. That was mine, my dream, I 

knew it — 
Of and belonging to me, as the dog 
With inward yelp and restless forefoot 

plies 
His function of the woodland; bat the 

next I 
I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed 
Came driving rainlike down again on earth. 
And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, 

sprang 49 

No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth. 
For these I thought my dream would show 

to me, 
But ^rls, Hetairai, curious in their art, 
Hired animalisms, vile as those that made 
The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse 
Than aught they fable of the ouiet Gods. 
And hands they mixt, and yell d and round 

me drove 
In narrowing circles till I yell'd again 
Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw — 
Was it the first beam of my latest day ? 

* Then, then, from utter gloom stood out 

the breasts, 60 

The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a 

sword 
Now over and now under, now direct, 
Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down 

shamed 
At all that beauty ; and as I stared, a 

fire. 
The fire that left a roofless Ilion, 
Shot out of them, and scoreh*d me that I 

woke. 

<Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, 

thine. 
Because I would not one of thine own 

doves, 
Not even a rose, were oifer'd to thee? 

thine. 
Forgetful how my rich procemion makes 70 
Thy glory fly along the Italian field. 
In lays that will outlast thy deity ? 

' Deity ? nay, thy worshippers. My 

tongue 
Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of 

these 
Angers thee most, or angers thee at all ? 
Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof 



§76 



LUCRETIUS 



From envy, hate and pity, and spite and 

acorn, 
LiTO the great life which all our greatest fain 
Woold follow, centred in eternal calm. 

< Nay, if then canst, O Goddess, like our- 
selves 80 

Touch, and be tonch'd, then would I cry to 
thee 

To kiss thy MaTors, roll thy tender arms 

Bound him, and keep him from the lust of 
blood 

That makes a steaming slaughter-house of 
Bome. 

'Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant not 

her 
Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see 
81ide from that quiet heaven of hers, and 

tempt 
The Trojan, while hb neatherds were 

abroad; 
Nor her that o'er her wounded hunter wept 
Her deity false in human-amorous tears; 90 
Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter 
Decided fairest. Ratber, O ye Grods, 
Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called 
Calliope to grace his golden verse — 
Ay, and this Kypris also — did I take 
That popular name of thine to shadow 

forth 
Hie all-generating powers and genial heat 
Of Nature, when she strikes thro' the 

thick blood 
Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are 

glad 99 

Nosing the mother's udder, and the bird 
Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of 

flowers; 
Which things appear the work of mighty 

(rods. 

* The Gods I and if I go my work is left 
Unfinished — if I go. The Gods, who haunt 
The lucid interspace of world and world, 
Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a 

wind, 
Nor ever falls the least white star of snow, 
Nor ever lowest roll of thunder raoaus, 
Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar 
Their sacred everlasting calm f and such, 
Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm, m 
Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain 
Letting his own life go. The Gods, the 

Godsl 



If all be atoms, how then should tfae Gods 

Being atomic not be dissoluble, 

Not follow the great law ? M j master 

held 
That Gods there are, for all men ao betieve. 
I prest my footsteps into his, and meant 
Surely to lead my Memmius in a train 
Of flowery clauses onward to the proof tac 
That Gods there are, and aeathleM. 

Meant ? I meant 7 
I have forgotten what I meant; mj mmd 
Stumbles, and all my faculties are uunad. 

'Look where another of our Goda» tbe 

Sun, 
Apollo, Delius, or of older use 
All-seeing Hyperion — what yon will — 
Has mounted yonder; since he never sware, 
Except his wrath were wreak'd on wretched 

man. 
That he would onl v shine among the dead 
Hereafter — tales I for never yet on earth 
Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting 

OZ 131 

Moan round the spit — nor knows he what 

he sees; 
King of the East altho' he seem, and girt 
With song and flame and fragrance, slowly 

lifts 
His golden feet on those empurpled stairs 
That climb into the windy halls of heaven 
And here he glances on an eye new-bom. 
And gets for greeting but a wail of pain; 
And here he stays upon a freezing orb 
That fain would gaze upon him to the last; 
And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen 141 
And closed by those who mourn a friend 

in vain. 
Not thankful that his troubles are no more. 
And me, altho' his fire is on my face 
Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell 
Whether I mean this day to end myself. 
Or lend an ear to Plato where he says. 
That men like soldiers may not quit the 

post 
Allotted by the Gods. But he that holds 
The Gods are careless, wherefore need he 

care 150 

Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at 

once, 
Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and 

sink 
Past earthquake — ay, and gout and stone^ 

that oreak 
Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-lifc^ 



LUCRETIUS 



«77 



Aid wretekad ace — and wont diBease of 

Tint |»rodiffiM of mjriad nakednesses, 
Asd twisted shapes of lost, unspeakable, 
AhwmiaMe, tUmnfj^n at my hearth 
Kit veleome, harpies miring every dish, 
Hn phantom hosks of something foully 
dene, 160 

Asd fleeting thro' the boundless universe, 
Asd Usiting the long quiet of mj breast 
Witk saimal heat and dire insamty ? 

'Bov shonld the mind, except it loved 
them, elasp 
Tbm idob to herself ? or do they fly 
Kov thuner, and now thicker, like the 

Is s fidl of snow, and so press in, perforce 
Of Bmltitttde, as crowds that in an hour 
Of d?ic tumult jam the doors, and bear 
IW keepers down, and throng, their rags 
and they 170 

IW basest, far into that council-hall 
Wktn mi the best and stateliest of the 
land? 

' Can I not fling this horror off me again, 
BeaJBf with how great ease Nature can 

smUe, 
Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm, 
At random ravage 7 and how easily 
The mountain there has east his cloudy 

■km^ 
Now towenng o'er him in serenest air, 
A ■Mmatain o'er a mountain, — ay, and 

withm 179 

AD hollow as the hopes and fears of men ? 

*Bat who was he that in the garden 



PSeai and Fannns, mstic Gods 7 a tale 
To laagh at — more to laugh at in my- 

Mlf — 

For look ! iHiat is it ? there 7 yon arbutus 
Tottm; a noiseless riot underneath 
teifces thi«a|;h the wood, sets all the tops 

qnivenng** 
no ■Mwmtaia quiokans into Nymph and 

Faan*, 
And bare an Oread— how the sun delights 
To gkaeo and shift about her slippery 



Aad raoy kneeii and supple ronndedness, loo 
Aad baddad bosom-peaks — who this way 



Before the rest! — A satyr, a satjrr, see, 
Follows; but him I proved impossible; 
Twy-natured is no nature. Yet he draws 
Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now 
Beastlier than any phantom of his kind 
Tftiat ever butted his reugh brother-brute 
For lust or lusty blood or provender. 
I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she 
Loathes him as well; such a precipitate 
heel, aoo 

Fledged as it were with Mereury's ankle- 
wing. 
Whirls her to me — but will she fling herself 
Shameless upon me? Catch her, goat- 
foot I nay. 
Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilder^ 

ness, 
And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide I do I 

wish — 
What 7 —that the bush were leafless ? or 

to whelm 
All of them in one massacre 7 O ye Gods, 
I know you careless, yet, behold, to yon 
From childly wont and ancient use I call — 
I thought I lived securely as yourselves — 
No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey- 
spite, an 
No madness of ambition, avarice, none; 
No larger feast tlian under plane or pine 
With neighbors laid along the grass, to 

Uke 
Only such cups as left us friendly-warm, 
Affirming each his own philosophy — 
Nothine to mar the sober majesties 
Of settled, sweet. Epicurean life. 
But now it seems some unseen monster 

lays 
His vast and filthy hands upon my will, aw 
Wrenching it backward into his, and spoils 
My bliss in being; and it was not great. 
For save when shutting reasons up in 

rhythm, 
Or Heliconian honey in livinr words. 
To make a truth less hanh, I often grew 
Tired of so much within our little lire. 
Or of so little in our little life — 
Poor little life that toddles half an hour 
Crown'd with a flower cr two, and there as 
end — t» 

And since the nobler pleasure seems to fadf 
Why should I, beastlike as I find myself. 
Not manlike end myself?— -our priv 

lege — 
What beast has heart to do it 7 And wh 



27S 



THE WINDOW 



What Roman would be dragg'd in triomph 

thus? 
Not I; not he, who bean one name with 

her 
Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom 

of kings, 
When, brooking not the Tarquin in her 

veins, 
She made her blood in sight of Collatine 
And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air, 
Spout from the maiden fountain in her 

heart. 340 

And from it sprang the Commonwealth, 

which breaks 
Aa I am breaking now I 

* And therefore now 
Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all, 
Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart 
Those blind beginnings that have made me 

man. 
Dash them anew together at her will 
Thro' all her cycles — into man onoe more. 
Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower. 
But till this cosmic order everywhere 
Shatter'd into one earthquake in one day 
Cracks all to pieces, — and that hour per- 
haps 351 
Is not so far when momentary man 
Shall seem no more a something to himself, 
But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and 

fanes, 
And even his bones long laid within the 

grave. 
The very sides of the grave itself shaU 
pass, 



Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void. 
Into the unseen for ever, — till that hour. 
My golden work in which I told a troth 
That stays the rolling Ldonian wheel, a6« 
And numbs the Fury's rin^et-fioake, and 

plucks 
The mortal soul from out immortal hell, 
ShaU stand. Ay, surely; theai it faila at 

last 
And perishes as I must; for O Tboo, 
Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity, 
Team'd after by the wisest of the wise. 
Who &ul to find thee, being as thou art 
Without one pleasure and without one 

pain, 
Howbeit I know thou surely must he mine 
Or soon or late, yet out of season, thoa 970 
I woo thee roughly, for thou eareat not 
How roughly men may woo thee so they 

win — 
Thus — thus — the soul flies ont and diea in 

the air.' 

With that he drove the knife into Ida 

side. 
She heard him raging, heard him fall, ran 

in. 
Beat breast, tore hair, cried ont npon haw 

self 
As having fail'd in duty to him, shriek'd 
That she but meant to win him back, fell 

on him, 
Clasp'd, kiss'd him, wail'd. He answer'd, 

* Care not thou I 
Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee 

weUI' 



THE WINDOW; OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS 



^rst printed in 1867 at the prirate press of Sir Ivor Bertie Onest, at Canford Manor, near 
Wimborne. Only a few copies were printed, and one ii rarely found in the market. Reprinted, 
with yariations in the text, and with music by Sir Arthur Snllivan, in December, 1870. This 
edition had the following preface, which was retained in the edition of 1884, when the poems 
next appeared : — 

Fonr yearn ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, GJerman fashion, for him 
to exercise his art upon. He had been very snocessf ol in setting such old songs, as * Orpheus with 
his lute,' and I drest np for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost only merit is, 
perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my f oar-year-old pup- 
pet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days ; but the music is now com- 
pleted, and I am bound by my promise. 

A. Tkkvtsoii. 
DeoMPber, 1A70> 



THE WINDOW 



«79 



THE WINDOW 



ON THB HILL 



liplitf and iluulows flj I 
r it bffigliteiit and darkens down on 
the plain. 
A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye I 
O, ia it tbe brook, or a pool, or her window- 

Wlien the winds are up in the morn- 
ing? 

Cloods that are raeing aboye, 
Aad winds and lights and shadows that 
cannot be still, 
All ninning on one waj to the home of 
mj lore, 
TcMi are all ninning on, and I stand on the 
slope of the hill, 9 

And the winds are np in the morning ! 

Fellow, follow the ehase I 
And mj thoughts are as quick and as quick, 
ever oo, cm, on. 
O lights, are yon fljing over her sweet 
Tittle face ? 
And my heart is there before jon are oome, 
and gone. 
When the winds are up in the morn- 
ing! 

Follow them down the slope I 
And I follow them down to the window- 
pane of my dear. 
And It brightens and darkens and bright- 
ens like my hope, 
And it darkens and brightens and^darkens 
like my fear, tq 

And the winds are up in the morning I 

AT THE WINDOW 

Vine, Tine and eglantine. 
Clasp her window, trail and twine I 
Boee, rose and clematis, 
TnSl and twine and elasp and kiss, 
KisB, kiss; and make her a bower 
All of flowers, and drop me a flower. 
Drop me a flower. 

Vine» vina and eglantine, 

Gumot a flower, a flower, be mine ? 

Booe, roee and clematis, so 



Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss. 
Kiss, kiss — and out of her bower 
All of flowers, a flower, a flower^ 
Dropt, a flower. 



GONE 

Gone! 

Gone, till the end of the year. 

Gone, and the light gone with her, and left 

me in shadow here ! 

Gone — flitted away. 
Taken the stars from the night and the 

sun from the day ! 
Gone, and a cloud in my heart, and a storm 

in the air ! 4a 

Flown to the east or the west, flitted I 

know not where ! 
Down in the south is a flash and a groan: 

sh') is there I she is there I 

WINTER 

The frost is here. 

And fuel is dear, 

And woods are sear. 

And fires bum clear. 

And frost here 

And has bitten the heel of the going year. 

Bite, frost, bite I 

You roll up away from the light 50 

The blue wood-louse and the plump dor- 
mouse, 

And the bees are still'd, and the flies are 
kiird, 

And you bite far into the heart of the 
house. 

But not into mine. 

Bite, frost, bite I 
The woods are all the searer. 
The fuel is all the dearer, 
The fires are all the clearer, 
My spring is all the nearer. 
You bare bitten into the heart of the 
earth, te 

But not into mine. 

SPRING 

Birds* love and birds* song 

Flying here and there, 
Birds* song and birds* love, 

And you with gold for hair I 



98o 



THE WINDOW 



Birds' song and birds' loTe, 

Passing with tbe weather, 
Men's song and men's love. 

To love onoa and for eyer. 

Men's loTe and birds' love, 70 

And women's love and men's I 
And yoa m j wren with a crown of gold. 

Ton mj qneen of the wrens 1 
You the queen of the wrens — 

We '11 be birds of a feather, 
1 11 be King of the Queen of the wrens, 

And all in a nest together. 

THE LETTER 

Where is another sweet as my sweet, 
Fine of the fine, and shy of the shj ? 

Fine little hands, fine little feet — 80 

Dewy blue eye. 

Shall I write to her ? shall I »> ? 
Ask her to marry me by and by 7 

Somebody said that she 'd say no; 
Somebody knows that she '11 say ay I 

Ay or no, if ask'd to her face 7 
Ay or no, from shy of the shy ? 

Go, little letter, apace, apace, 
Fly; 

Fly to the light in the valley below — 90 
Tell my wish to her dewy blue eye. 

Somebody said that she 'd say no; 
Somebody knows that she 11 say ay I 

NO ANSWER 

The mist and the rain, the mist and the 
rain I 
Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
And never a glimpse of her window-pane ! 
And I may die but the grass will grow, 
And the grass will grow when I am gone, 
And the wet west wind and the world will 
go on. 

Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, 100 
No is trouble and cloud and storm. 

Ay is life for a hundred years, 

No will push me down to the worm, 

And when I am there and dead and gone, 

The wet west wind and the world will go on. 

The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet! 
Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow ! 



And never a line from my lady jet I 

Is it ay or no ? is it ay or no ? 
Blow then, blow, and when I am eooe, tm 
The wet west wind and the world maj go 
on. 

NO ANSWER 

Winds are load and you are dnmb^ 
Take my love, for love will come. 

Love will come bat onoe a life. 
Winds are loud and winds will pass I 
Spring is here with leaf and grass; 

Take my love and be my wife. 
After-loves of maids and men 
Are but dainties drest again. 
Love me now, you 11 love me then; am 

Love can love but onoe a life. 

THE ANSWER 

Two little hands that meet, 

Claspt on her seal, my sweet ! 

Must I take you and break yoo. 

Two little haiids that meet ? 

I must take you, and break yoa. 

And loving hands must part — 

Take, take — break, break — 

Break — you may break my heart. 
Faint heart never won — 19c 

Break, break, and all 's done. 

AY 

Be merry, all birds, to-day. 
Be merry on esrth as yoa never were 
merry before. 
Be merry in heaven, O larks, and far 
away, 
And merry for ever and ever, and one day 
more. 

Why 7 
For it 's easy to find a rhyme. 
Look, look, how he flits. 

The fire-crown'd king of the wrens, from 

out of the pine f 

Look how they tumble the blossom, the 

mad little tits ! 140 

' Cuck-00 ! Cuck-00 I ' was ever a May 

so fine ? 

Why? 
For it 's easy to find a rhyme. 
O merry the linnet and dove. 

And swallow and sparrow and throstle, 
and have your desire I 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



281 



7 mj hmxif 70a have j^otten the 
wuigs of loTe, 
Aad flit lika the kin^ of the wrena with 
A cfowii of fire. 

Wh7? 
For it 'a a7 bj^ kj uj. 

WHEN 

8«B oomes, moon comes, 150 

Time slips awA7. 
8aii sets, moon sets. 

Lore, fix a da7. 

' A Tear henoe, a 7ear henoe.' 

• We shall hoth be gray.' 

' A mooth hence, a month hence.' 
' Far, far awa7.' 

* A week hence, a week henoe.' 

• Ah, the long dela7 ! ' 

• Wait a little, wait a little, ifo 

Yon shall fix a da7.' 

'To>morrow, love, to-morrow, 

And that *s an age awa7.* 
filaxe npon her window, sun. 

And honor all the da7. 



MARRIAGE MORNING 

Lifrht, so low opon earth, 

You send a flash to the son. 
Here is the golden close of love. 

All my wooing is done. 
O, the woods and the meadowsi 170 

Woods where we hid from the wet, 
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind. 

Meadows in which we met I 

Liffht, so low in the vale 

You flash and lighten afar. 
For this is the eolden morning of love, 

And YOU are nis morning star. 
Flash, I am coming, I come, 

Bj meadow and stile and wood, 
O, lighten into my eyes and my heart, 180 

Into my heart and my blood ! 

Heart, are you great enough 

For a love that never tires ? 
O heart, are yon great enough for love ? 

I have heard of thorns and briers. 
Over the thorns and briers. 

Over the meadows and stiles, 
Over the world to the end of it 

Flash for a million miles. 



THE LOVER'S TALE 

ThSm poem (written in 1828) was pinted in 1833, bnt withdrawn before pablieation for 
SOBS wmeh the aothor gives in the following preface to the reprint of 1879 : — 

The eriginel IVefsoe to ' The Lover's Tale ' states that it was composed ia my nineteenth vear. 
Two oaly of the three psrts then written were printed, when, feeling the imperfection of the 
pocai, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends, howcTer, who, boylike, admired the 
boy^ work, distributed among our common associates of that hoar some copies of these two 
paits, withoot my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contempla- 
iioa, and m ar red by the many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts hisTe 
of late beea mernleosly mratsd. and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to lire is not allowed 
to Ae, mav I not be paroooed if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light — accom- 
panisd with a reprint of the sequel — a work of my mature life — * The Golden Sapper ' ? 
Msy, UTS. 

ARGUMKNT 

JaHaa, wheee cousin and foster-sister, Camilla, has been wedded to his friend and riral, Lionel, 
sadeafors to narrate the story of his own lore for her, and the strange sequel. He speaks (in 
Parts IL and IH.) of haTing been haunted by Tisions and the sound of bells, tolling for a funeral, 
— ^ at last ringing for a marriage ; bnt he breaks away, overcome, as he approaches the Event, 
to it eompletes the tale. 



I 



Hkbb far away, teen from the topmost 

eUir, 
Filling with purple gloom the vacancies 



Between the tufted hills, the sloping seas 
Hung in mid-heaven, and half-wa7 down 

rare sails. 
White as white clouds, floated from sk7 to 

sky. 



982 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



O pleasant breast of waters, quiet bay, 
Like to a quiet mind in the loud world, 
Where the chafed breakers of the outer 



Sank powerless, as anger &lls aside 

And withers on the breast of peaceful 

love 1 lo 

Thoa didst receire the growth of pines 

that fledged 
The hills that watch'd thee, as Love watch- 

eth Love, 
In thine own essence, and delight thyself 
To make it wholly thine on sunny days. 
Keep thou thy name of 'Lover's Bay.' 

oee, sirs, 
Even now the Groddess of the Past, that 

takes 
The heart, and sometimes touches but one 

string 
That quivers and is silent, and sometimes 
Sweeps suddenly all its half-moulder'd 

chords 
To some old melody, begins to play 20 

That air which pleased her first. I feel thy 

breath; 
I come, great Mistress of the ear and 

eye; 
Thy breath is of the pine-wood, and tho' 

years 
Have hollow'd out a deep and stormy strait 
Betwixt the native land of Love and me. 
Breathe but a little on me, and the sail 
Will draw me to the rising of the sun, 
The lucid chambers of the morning star, 
And East of Life. 

Permit me, friend, I prythee. 
To pass my hand across my brows, and 

muse 30 

On those dear hills, that nevermore will 

meet 
The sight that throbs and aches beneath 

my touch. 
As tho* there beat a heart in either eye; 
For when the outer lights are darken'd 

thus, 
The memory's vision hath a keener edge. 
It grows upon me now — the semicircle 
Of dark-blue waters and the narrow fringe 
Of curving beach — its wreaths of drip- 
ping green — 
Its pale pink shells — the summer-house 

aloft 
That open'd on the pines with doors of 

glass, 4P 



A monntain nest — the pleasore-lKMit tfaal 

rock'd, 
Ligfat-neen with its own ihadow, keel to 

keel. 
Upon the dappled dimplings of the wmye 
That blanch'd upon its side. 

OLove, OHope! 
They come, they crowd Qp<m me all at 

once — 
Moved from the eload of nnforgoCteii 

things. 
That sometimes on the horison of the mind 
Lies folded, often sweeps athwart ia 

storm — 
Flash upon flash they lighten thro' me — 

days 
Of dewy dawnine and the amber eves s" 
When thou and I, Camilla, thou and I 
Were borne about the bay or safely moored 
Beneath a low-brow'd cavern, idbere the 

tide 
Flash'd, sapping its vrom ribs; and all 

without 
The slowly-ridging rollers on the cliiEs 
Clash'd, calling to each other, and thro' the 

arch 
Down those loud waters, like a setting star, 
Mixt with the gorgeous west the lighthouse 

shone, 
And silvei^miling Venus ere she fell 
Would often loiter in her balmy blue, 60 
To crown it with herself. 

Here, too, my love 
Waver'd at anchor with me, when day 

hung 
From his mid-dome in heaven's airy halls : 
Gleams of the water-circles as they broke 
Flickered like doubtful smiles about her 

lips, 
Quiver'd a flying glory on her hair. 

Leapt like a passing thought across her 
eyes; 

And mine with one that will not pass, till 
earth 

And heaven pass too, dwelt on my heaven, 
a face 

Most starry-fair, but kindled from within 

As 't were with dawn. She was dark- 
hair 'd, dark-eyed — 71 

O, such dark eyes I a single glance of 
them 

Will govern a whole life from birth to 
death, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



a83 



GMHt ol mil things elM, led on with 

li^t 
Ib tiBBoet and in risions. Look at them, 
T« kne jonnelf in ntter ignorance ; 
T« «aaot find their depth; for they go 

baek. 
Aid iuther baek, and itill withdraw them- 

•elTes 
Qrite mto the deep loal, that evermore 
Iicih ipringing from her fountains in the 

hrain, 80 

8lfll pouring thro*, floods with redundant 

life 
Bflr narrow portals. 

Trast me, long ago 
I ikoald have died, if it were possible 
To die in gazing on that perf ectness 
WUdi I do bear within me. I had died, 
fiat from m j farthest lapse, my latest ebb, 
Tbtne image, like a charm of light and 

strength 
Upon the waters, push'd me back aeain 
On these deserted sands of barren Lfe. 
Tho* from the deep vault where the heart 

of Hope 90 

Fdl into dust, and crumbled in the dark — 
Fot^getting how to render beautiful 
Her countenance with quick and healthful 

Uood — 
Thou didst not sway me upward; could I 

perish 
While thou, a meteor of the sepulchre. 
Didst swathe thyself all round Hope's quiet 

am 
For ever? He that saith it hath o'er- 

stept 
TIm slippery footing of his narrow wit, 
Aad fallen away from judgment. Thou 

art light, 
To which my spirit leaneth all her flowers. 
And length of days, and immortality 101 
Of tbooght, and freshness ever self-re- 

new'd. 
For Time and Grief abode too long with 

Life, 
Aady like all other friends i' the world, at 

last 
Thrr grew aweary of her fellowship. 
So Time and Grief did beckon unto Death, 
And Death drew nigh and beat the doors 

of Life; 
Bvt thou didst sit alone in the inner house, 
A wakeful portress, and didst parle with 

Death,— 



'This is a charmed dwelling which I 

hold;' no 

So Death gave back, and would no further 

come. 
Tet is my life nor in the present time, 
Nor in the present place. To me alone, 
Push'd from his chair of regal heritage, 
The Prosent is the vassal of the Past: 
So that, in that I have lived, do I live, 
And cannot die, and am, in having been— 
A portion of the pleasant yesterday, 
Thrust forward on to-day and out of plaoe; 
A body joumeving onwsrd, sick with toil, 
The weight as if of age upon my limbs, lai 
The grasp of hopeless grief about my 

heart. 
And all the senses weaken*d, save in that. 
Which long ago they had glean'd and gar- 
nerd up 
Into the granaries of memory — 
The clear brow, bulwark of the preciona 

brain, 
Chink'd as yon see, and seam'd — and all 

the while 
The light soul twines and mingles with the 

growths 
Of viperous early days, attracted, won, 119 
Married, made one with, molten into all 
The beautiful in Past of act or place, 
And like the all-enduring camel, driven 
Far from the diamond fountain by the 

palms. 
Who toils across the middle moonlit nights, 
Or when the white heats of the blinding 

noons 
Beat from the concave sand; yet in him 

keeps 
A draught of that sweet fountain that he 

loves, 
To stav his feet from falling and his spirit 
From bitterness of death. 

Ye ask me, friends. 
When I began to love. How should I tell 

you ? 140 

Or from the after-fulness of mv hearty 
Flow back tipdn onto my slender spring 
And first of love, tho' ever^ turn and depth 
Between is clearer in mv life than all 
Its present flow. Ye know not what ye 

ask. 
How should the broad and open flower 

tell 
What sort of bud it was, when, prest to* 

gether 



284 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



In its green Bheathy cloee-lapt in silken 

folds, 
It seem'd to keep its sweetness to itself, 
Yet was not the less sweet for that it 

seem'd ? 150 

For joong Life knows not when yonng 

Life was bom, 
Bot takes it all for granted: neither Love, 
Warm in the heart, his cradle, can remem- 
ber 
Love in the womb, bat resteth satisfied. 
Looking on her that brought him to the 

Bght; 
Or as men know not when they fall asleep 
Into delicious dreams, our other life. 
So know I not when I began to love. 
This is my sum of knowledge — that my love 
Grew with myself — say rather, was my 

grovrth, 160 

My inward sap, the hold I have on earth. 
My outward circling air wherewith I 

breathe, 
hich yet upholds my life, and evermore 
Is to me daily life and daily death. 
For how should I have lived and not have 

loved? 
Can ye take off the sweetness from the 

flower. 
The color and the sweetness from the rose, 
And place them by themselves; or set 

apart 
Their motions and their brightness from 

the stars, 169 

And then point out the flower or the star ? 
Or build a wall betwixt my life and love, 
And tell me where I am ? T is even thus: 
In that I live I love; because I love 
I live. Whatever is fountain to the one 
Is fountain to the other; and whene'er 
Our God unknits the riddle of the one. 
There is no shade or fold of mystery 
Swathing the other. 

Many, many years — 
For they seem many and my most of life, 
And well I could have Imger'd in that 
porch, iSo 

So unproportion'd to the dwelling-place, — 
In the May-dews of childhood, opposite 
The flush and dawn of youth, we lived to- 
gether, 
Apart, alone together on those hills. 

Before he saw my day my father died. 
And he was happy that he saw it not; 



Bat I and the first daisy on his grave 
From the same day came into light at 

once. 
As Love and I do number equal yeaisiy 
So she, my love, is of an age with me. 19s 
How like each other was the birth of aaeh I 
On the nme monung, almost tlie mm 

boor. 
Under the selfsame aspect of the stars — 
O, falsehood of all stazHsraft 1 — we were 

bom. 
How like each other was the birth of each I 
The sister of my mother — she that bore 
Camilla close beneath her beating heart. 
Which to the imprison'd spirit of the ehild. 
With its true-touched pulses in the flow 
And hourly visitation of the blood, aoo 

Sent notes of preparation manifold. 
And mellow'd echoes of the outer world — 
My mother's sister, mother of my love. 
Who had a twofold claim upon my heart. 
One twofold mightier than the other was, 
In giving so much beauty to the world. 
And so much wealth as God had eharged 

her with — 
Loathing to put it from herself for ever. 
Left her own life with it; and dying thus, 
Crown'd with her highest act the placid 

face aio 

And breathless body of her good deeds 

past 

So were we bom, so orphan'd. She waa 
motherless. 
And I without a father. So from each 
Of those two pillars which from earth up- 
hold 
Our childhood, one had fallen away, and all 
The careful burthen of our tender years 
Trembled upon the other. He that gave 
Her life, to me delightedly fulfilled 
AH loving kindnesses, all offices 
Of watchful care and trembling tenderness 
He waked for both, be pray'd for both, he 
slept 221 

Dreaming of both; nor was his love the 

less 
Because it was divided, and shot forth 
Boughs on each side, laden with wholesome 

shade, 
Wherein we nested sleeping or awake. 
And sang aloud the matin-song of life. 

She was my foster-sister. On one arm 
The flaxen ringlets of our infancies 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



»«S 



WadUr^dy tbe while we rested ; one soft lap 
FSDov'd «• both; a oommon light of eyes 
Wm OB «s as we lay; our baby lips, asi 
Kiabg one bosom, erer drew from thence 
Ik itraam of life, one stream, one life, 

OM blood, 
Qm Rstenaneey which, still as thought 

grew large, 
8121 kigsr moulding all the house of 

thought, 
Mads sll our tastes and fancies like, per- 
haps— 
AH— sll out one; and strange to me, and 

sweet, 
Svtet thro' strange years to know that 

whatsoe'er 
Osr general mother meant for me alone, 
On mutual mother dealt to both of us. 140 
So wliat was earliest mine in earliest life, 
Iihsrsd with her in whom myself remains. 

As was our childhood, so our infancy, 
Thgr tell me, was a Tcry miracle 
Of ralow-feeling and communion. 
They tell me that we would not be alone, — 
We cried when we were parted; when I 

wept, 
Her fmile lit up the rainbow on my tears, 
Stay'd on the cloud of sorrow; that we 

lOTOd 

TW aoiiiid of one another's voices more 150 
Thaa the gray cuckoo loves his name, and 

leam'd 
To lisp in tune together; that we slept 
Ib the same cradle always, face to face, 
Heart beating time to heart, lip pressing 

Up, 
Folding each other, breathing on each other. 
Dreaming together — dreaming of each 

other. 
They should have added, — till the morning 

liKht 
Sloped thro' the pines, upon the dewy pane 
Falling, unseal'd our eyelids, and we woke 
To gase upon each other. If this be true, 
Ai thought of which my whole soul lan- 
guishes a6i 
And faints, and hath no pulse, no breath 

— astho' 
A man in some still garden should infuse 
Rich atar in the bosom of the rose, 
Till, drunk with its own wine, and overfull 
Of sweetness, and in smelling of itself, 
It fall on its own thorns — if this be true — 
Amd that way my wish leads me evermore 



Still to believe it, 't is so sweet a thought — 
Why in the utter stillness of the soul 370 
Doth question'd memory answer not, nor 

tell 
Of this our earliest, our closest-drawn, 
Most loveliest, esxthly - heavenliest har- 
mony? 

O blossom'd portal of the lonely house, 
Green prelude, April promise, glad new- 
year 
Of being, which with earliest violets 
And lavish carol of dear-throated larks 
FUi'd aU the March of life ! — I will not 

speak of thee. 
These have not seen thee, these can never 

know thee. 
They cannot understand me. Fubb we 

then s8o 

A term of eighteen years. Ye would but 

laueh 
If I should tell you how I hoard in thought 
The faded rhymes and scraps of ancient 

crones, 
Grav relics of the nurseries of the world, 
Which are as gems set in my memory. 
Because she learnt them with me; or what 

use 
To know her father left us just before 
The daffodil was blown ? or how we found 
The dead man cast upon the shore 7 All 

this 
Seems to the ouiet daylight of your minds 
But cloud ana smoke, and in the dark of 

mine »qt 

Is traced with flame. Move with me to the 

event. 

There came a glorious morning, such a 
one 
As dawns but once a season. Mercury 
On such a morning would have flung him- 
self 
From cloud to cloud, and swum with bal- 
anced wings 
To some tall mountain. When I said to her, 
* A day for gods to stoop,' she answered^ 

'Ay, 
And men to soar; ' for as that other gased. 
Shading his eyes till all the fierv doiM, 500 
The prophet and the cftiariot and the steeds. 
Suck d into oneness like a little star 
Were drunk into the inmost blue, we stood. 
When first we came from out the pines at 
noon, 



286 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



With bands for eaves, uplooking and al- 
most 
Waiting to see some blessed sbape in bea- 

yen, 
So bathed we were in brilliance. Never yet 
Before or after have I known the spring 
Pour with such sadden deluges of light 
Into the middle summer; for that day 310 
Love, rising, shook his wings, and eharged 

the vrinds 
With spiced May -sweets from bound to 

bound, and blew 
Fresh fire into the sun, and from within 
Burst thro' the heated bnds, and sent his 

soul 
Into the songs of birds, and touoh'd far-off 
His mountain-altars, his high hills, with 

flame 
Milder and purer. 

Thro' the rocks we wound; 
The great pine shook with lonely sounds 

of joy 
That came on the sea-wind. As mountain 

streams 
Our bloods ran free; the sunshine seem'd 

to brood 3»o 

More warmly on the heart than on the 

brow. 
We often paused, and, looking back, we saw 
The clefts and openings in the mountains 

iiird 
With the blue valley and the glistening 

brooks. 
And all the low dark groves, a land of love I 
A land of promise, a land of memory, 
A land of promise flowing with the milk 
And honey of delicious memories ! 
And down to sea, and far as eye could ken. 
Each way from verge to verge a Holy 

Land, 330 

Still growing holier as you near'd the bay. 
For there the Temple stood. 

When we had reach'd 
The grassy platform on some hill, I stoop'd, 
I gather^ the wild herbs, and for her brows 
And mine made garlands of the selfsame 

flower. 
Which she took smiling, and with my work 

thus 
Crown*d her clear forehead. Once or twice 

she told me — 
For I remember all things — to let grow 
The flowers that run poison in their veins. 



She said, * The evil flourish in the wocld.' 
Then playfully she ^ve herself the lie — 
* Nothing in nature is unbeantifnl; 34 

So, brother, pluck and spare moi.' 80 £1 

wove 
Even the dull-blooded poppy-stem, ' 

flower, 
' (ued with the scarlet of a fierce sunrise^ 
Like to the wild youth of an evil prineOv 
Is without sweetness, bnt who crowns ~ 

self 
Above the naked poisons of his heart 
In his old age.' A graoefnl thoa^^ 

hers 
Graven on my fancy I And O, how like % 

nymph, 399 

A stately mountain nymph she look'd ! how 

native 
Unto the hills she trod on I Whfle I 
My coronal slowly disentwined itself 
And fell between us both; tho' while I 

gazed 
My spirit leap'd as with those thrills of bliss 
That strike across the soul in prayer, and 

show us 
That we are surely heard. Methonght a 

light 
Burst from the garland I had woven, and 

stood 
A solid glory on her bright black hair; 
A light methought broke from her dark, 

dark eyes, 360 

And shot itself into the singing winds; 
A mystic light flash'd even from her white 

robe 
As from a glass in the sun, and fell about 
My footsteps on the mountains. 

Last we came 
To what our people call * The Hill of Woe.' 
A bridge is there, that, look'd at from be- 
neath. 
Seems but a cobweb filament to link 
The yawning of an earthquake - cloven 

chasm. 
And thence one night, when all the winds 

were loud, 
A wof ul man — for so the story went — 370 
Had thrust his wife and child and dash'd 

himself 
Into the dizzy depth below. Below, 
Fierce in the strength of far descent, a 

stream 
Flies with a shatter'd foam along the 
chasm. 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



2$y 



Hi ftA was perQoiis, loosely strown 
Willi onigB. 
Wt isstad slowly; yet to both there 



Hi joy el life in steepness overcome, 
iidfiotories of ssoent, and looking down 
OiaB tbst bnd look'd down on as; and joy 
Ii huthing nearer heaven; and joy to me, 
HUk ofer Si the amre-eireled earth, 381 
Ttweitbe with her as if in heaven itself; 
Aid BOfe than joy that I to her became 
flw nardian and her angel, raising her 
SdU higher, past all peril, until she saw 
ficMsto her feet the region far away, 
fii^wd the nearest mountain's boskv brows, 
Am in open prospect — heath and hill, 
iad hollow lined and wooded to the lips, 
iad sleep -down walls of battlemented 
loek 390 

GSUsd with broom, or shattered into spires, 
Asd glory of broad waters interfnsed, 
WhsMe rose as it were breath and steam 

of gold. 
And over all the great wood rioting 
A-«IJjJu».t«dc'do,.t«r.d.tinte. 

With falling brook or blossom'd bush — 

and last. 
Framing the mighty landscape to the west, 
A pnrpfe range of mountain-cones, between 
Wooee interspaces gush'd in blinding bursts 
The i B oocpogate bl^ of sun and 



At length 
Deaeending from the point, and standing 

both 401 

These 00 the tremulous bridge, that from 

beneath 
Had seem'd a gosaamer filament up in air. 
We paused amid the splendor. All the 



And even unto the middle south was ribb'd 
And barr'd with bloom on bloom. The sun 

below. 
Held for a spaee 'twixt cloud and wave, 

showerd down 
Rays of n mighty circle, weaving over 
TlMt varioos wilderness a tissue of light 
Unpniallerd. On the other side, the 

moon, 410 

Half-melted into thin blue air, stood still, 
And pale and fibrous as a wither'd leaf, 
Kor yet endured in preience of His eyes 
To tiMBe his lustre; most unloverlike, 

hi his n hs e n ce full of light and joy, 



And giving light to others. But this most. 
Next to her presence whom I loved so well, 
Spoke loudly even into my inmost heart 4i« 
AlS to my outward hearing. The loud 

stream, 
Forth issuing from his portals in the crag, — 
A visible link unto the home of my heart, — 
Ran amber toward the west, and nigh the 



Parting my own loved mountains was re- 
ceived. 
Shorn of its strength, into the sympathy 
Of that small bay, which out to open main 
Glow'd intermingling close beneath the sun. 
Spirit of Love I that little hour was bound. 
Shut in from Time, and dedicate to thee; 
Thy fires from heaven had touch'd it, and 

the earth 
They fell on became hallow'd evermore. 430 

We tum'd, our eyes met; hers were 

bright, and mine 
Were dim with floating tears, that shot the 

sunset 
In lightnings round me, and my name was 

borne 
Upon her breath. Henceforth my name 

has been 
A hallow'd memory like the names of old, 
A centred, elory-circled memory, 
And a peculiar treasure, brooking not 
Exchange or currency ; and in that hour 
A hope flow'd round roe, like a golden mist 
Charm'd amid eddies of melodious airs, 440 
A moment, ere the onward whirlwind 

shatter it, 
Waver'd and floated — which was less than 

Hope, 
Because it lack'd the power of perfect 

Hope; 
But which was more and higher than all 

Hope, 
Because all other Hope had lower aim; 
Even that this name to which her graeioos 

lips 
Did lend such gentle utterance, this one 

name, 
In some obscure hereafter, might in- 

wreathe — 
How lovelier, nobler then I — her life, her 

love. 
With my life, love, soul, spirit, and heart 

and strength. 450 

* Brother, ' she said, ' let this be oall'd henoe* 

forth 



388 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



The Hill of Hope; ' and I replied, * O sister, 
My will is one with thine; the Hill of 

Hope.' 
Nevertheless, we did not change the name. 

I did not speak; I coald not speak my 

love. 
Love lieth deep, Lore dwells not in lip- 
depths. 
Lore wraps his wings on either side the 

hei^ 
Constraining it with kisses close and warm, 
Absorbing ul the incense of sweet thoughts 
So that thej pass not to the shrine of 

sound. 460 

Else had the life of that delighted hour 
Drunk in the largeness of the utterance 
Of Love; but how should earthly measure 

mete 
The heavenly - unmeasured or unlimited 

Love, 
Who scarce can tune his high majestic 

sense 
Unto the thunder -song that wheels the 

spheres. 
Scarce living in the iGolian harmony, 
And flowing odor of the spacious air. 
Scarce housed within the circle of this 

earth. 
Be cabin'd up in words and syllables, 470 
Which pass with that which breathes them ? 

Sooner earth 
Might go round heaven, and the strait 

girth of Time 
Inswathe the fulness of Eternity, 
Than language grasp the infinite of Love. 

O day which did enwomb that happy 

hour, 
Thou art blessed in the years, divinest day I 
O Genius of that hour which dost uphold 
Thy coronal of glory like a god, 
Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, 479 
Who walk before thee, ever turning round 
To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim 
With dwelling on the light and depth of 

thine. 
Thy name is ever worshipp'd among hours ! 
Had I died then, I had not seem'd to die, 
For bliss stood round me like the light of 

heaven, — 
Had I died then, I had not known the 

death ; 
Tea, had the Power from whose right hand 

the light 



Of Life issneth, and from whose left band 

floweth 
The Shadow of Death, perennial efBneiieei^ 
Whereof to all that draw the wholesome air, 
Somewhile the one must overflow the 

other — 491 

Then had he stemm'd my day with night,. 

and driven 
My current to the fountain whence i^ 

sprang,— 
Even his own abiding ezeellenoe — 
On me, methinks, that shock of gloom had^ 

fallen 
Unf elt, and in this glory I had merged 
The other, like the sun I gased upon. 
Which seeming for the moment doe tc» 

death. 
And dipping his head low beneath the 

▼erge, 499 

Tet bearing round about him his own day. 
In confidence of unabated strength, 
Steppeth from heaven to heaven, from light 

to lieht, 
And holdetn his undimmed forehead tmt 
Into a clearer xenith, pure of cloud. 

We trod the shadow of the downward hill; 
We past from light to dark. On the other 

side 
Is scoop'd a cavern and a mountain hall. 
Which none have fathom'd. If you go 

far in — 
The country people rumor — yon may hear 
The moaning of the woman and the child, 
Shut in the secret chambers of the rock. 511 
I too have heard a sound — perchance of 

streams 
Running far on within its inmost halls. 
The home of darkness; but the cavern- 
mouth. 
Half overtrailed with a wanton weed. 
Gives birth to a brawling brook, that pass- 
ing lightly 
Adown a natural stair of tangled roots. 
Is presently received in a sweet grave 
Of eglantines, a place of burial 
Far lovelier than its cradle; for unseen, sao 
But taken with the sweetness of the place. 
It makes a constant bubbling melody 
That drowns the nearer echoes. Lower 

down 
Spreads out a little lake, that, flooding, 

leaves 
Low banks of yellow sand; and from the 
woods 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



289 



Ikk Mi it rise thrae dark, taU ey- 



ThiM cyprisii, fjrmbok of morUl woe, 
Ikl MB plant oYor grayei. 

Hither we came, 
Aid attag down upon the golden moss, 
BiU 6oaTef«e sweet and fow — low con- 
vene eweNBt, 530 
Ii wiueh oar yoiees bore leaf t part. The 

wind 
Told a bf»-tale beside us, how he woo*d 
IW wsters, and the waters answering 

hsp'd 
To kiMss of the wind, that, siok with love, 
Faisled at interrals, and grew again 
To otteraoee of passion* Ye cannot shape 
futj so fair as u this memory. 
MitlKNigfat all ezoellenoe that ever was 
flid drawn herself from many thousand 
Tears, 539 

iad sll the separate Edens of this earth, 
To centre in this place and time. I lis- 

ten'd. 
And her wovds stole with most prcTailing 

sweetness 
Iflfto my heart, as thronging fancies come 
To boys and girls when summer days are 



Aad tool and heart and body are all at 



What manrel my Camilla told me all ? 
It was so happy an hour, so sweet a place, 
Aad I was as the brother of her blood, 
Aad hj that name I moved upon her 

Dreathj 
Dear name, which had too much of near- 
ness in it 550 
Aad heralded the distance of this time I 
At first her voice was very sweet and low. 
As if she were afraid of utterance; 
Bat in the onward current of her speech, — 
As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks 
Are fiMhion'd by the channel which they 

keep,— 
Her words did of their meaning borrow 

sound. 
Her eheek did catch the color of her words. 
I heard and trembled, yet I could but 



My heart paosed — my raised eyelids would 
not fall, 560 

Bat itill I kept my eyes upon the skv. 
I seem'd the only part of Time stood still, 
Aad saw the motion of all other things; 



While her words, syllable by syllable. 
Like water, drop by drop, upon my ear 
Fell, and I wish'd, yet vnsn'd her not to 

speak; 
But she spake on, for I did name no wish. 
What marvel my Camilla told me all 
Her maiden dignities of Hope and Love — 
< Perchance,' she said, ' retum'd ' ? Even 

then the stars 570 

Did tremble in their stations as I gazed; 
But she spake on, for I did name no vrish. 
No wish — no hope. Hope was not wholly 

dead. 
But breatlung hard at the approach of 

death, — 
Camilla, mv Camilla, who vras mine 
No longer m the dearest sense of mine — 
For all the secret of her inmost heart, 
And all the maiden empire of her mind, 
Lay like a map before me, and I saw 
There, where I hoped myself to reign as 

king, 580 

There, where that day I erown'd myself as 

king, 
There in my realm and even on my throne, 

Another t Then it seem'd as tho' a link 

Of some tight chain within my inmost 

frame 
Was riven in twain; that life I heeded not 
Flowed from me, and the darkness of the 

grave, 
The darkness of the fpave and utter night, 
Did swallow up my vision; at her feet, 
Even the feet of her 1 loved, I fell, 
Smit with exceeding sorrow unto death. $90 

Then had th« e»th hen^th ma jmwt^g 

cloven 
With such a sound as when an iceberg 

splits 
From cope to base — had Heaven from all 

her doors. 
With all her golden thresholds clashing, 

roll'd 
Her heaviest thunder — I had lain as dead. 
Mute, blind, and motionless as then I lay; 
Dead, for henceforth there was no life for 

me f 
Mute, for henceforth what use were words 

to me? 
Blind, for the day was as the night to me ! 
The night to me was kinder than the day; 
The night in pity took away my day, 601 
Because my grief as yet was newly bom 
Of eyes too weak to look upon the light; 



390 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And thro' the hasty notice of the ear 
Frail Life was startled from the tender 

love 
Of him she brooded over. Would I had 

lain 
Until the plaited iyy-tress had woond 
Roond my worn limbs, and the wild brier 

had driyen 
Its knotted thorns thro' my unpaining 

brows, 
Leaning its roses on my faded eyes. 610 
The wind had blown above me, and the 

rain 
Had fallen upon me, and the gilded snake 
Had nestled m this bosom-throne of Love, 
Bat I had been at rest for evermore. 

Long time entrancement held me. All 

too soon 
Life — like a wanton, too-officious friend. 
Who will not hear denial, vain and rude 
With proffer of unwish'd-for senrioes — 
Entering all the avenues of sense 
Fkst thro' into his citadel, the brain, 6ao 
With hated warmth of apprehensiveness. 
And first the chillness of the sprinkled 

brook 
Smote on my brows, and then I seem'd to 

hear 
Its murmur, as the drowning seaman hears. 
Who with his head below the surface dropt 
Listens the muffled booming indistinct 
Of the confused floods, and dimly knows 
His head shall rise no more; and then came 

in 
The white light of the weary moon above, 
Difhised and molten into fla^ cloud. 630 
Was my sight drunk that it did shape to 

me 
Him who should own that name ? Were 

it not well 
If so be that the echo of that name 
Ringring within the fancy had updrawn 
A fashion and a phantasm of the form 
It should attach to ? Phantom I — had the 

ghastliest 
That ever lusted for a body, sucking 
The foul steam of the grave to thicken by 

it. 
There in the shuddering moonlight brought 

its face 639 

And what it has for eyes as close to mine 
As he did — better that than his, than he 
The friend, the neighbor, Lionel, the be- 
loved. 



The loved, the lover, the happy Tjonel, 
The low-voioed, tender-spiritea Lirniel, 
All joy, to whom my agony was a ioy. 
O, how her choice £d leap forth from fan 

eyes I 
O, how her love did clothe itself in amilea 
About his lips I and — not one momeiii't 

grace — 
Then when the effect weig^'d seas upon 

my head 
To come my way I to twit me with the 

cansel 650 

Was not the land as free thro' all her 

^ ways 
To him as me ? Was not his wont to 

walk 
Between the going light and growing 

night? 
Had I not learnt my loss before he came ? 
Could that be more because he came my 

way? 
Why should he not come my way if he 

would? 
And yet to-night, to-night — when all my 

wealth 
Flash'd from me in a moment and I fell 
Beggar'd for ever — why should he come 

my way 
Robed in those robes of light I must not 

wear, 660 

With that g^reat crown of beams about his 

brows — 
Come like an angel to a damned soul, 
To tell him of the bliss he bad with God — 
Come like a careless and a greedy heir 
That scarce can wait the reading of the 

will 
Before he takes possession ? Was mine a 

mood 
To be invaded rudely, and not rather 
A sacred, secret, unapproached woe, 
Unspeakable ? I was shut up with Grief; 
She took the body of my past delight, 670 
Narded and swathed and balm'd it for her- 
self. 
And laid it in a sepulchre of rock 
Never to rise again. I was led mute 
Into her temple like a sacrifice; 
I was the High Priest in her holiest plaec^ 
Not to be loudly broken in upon. 

O friend, thoughts deep and heavy as 
these well-nigh 
O'erbore the limits of my brain: but he 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



391 



Bni o*tr me, and mj neck his arm up- 

(IkMflU it was an adder's fold, and once 
I rtioft to disengage myself, bat f ail'd, 68 1 
Bwf 10 feeble. She bent above me, too; 
Wa was her cheek, for whatsoe'er of 

hli^ 
Lifw IB tne dewy touch of pity had made 
III lid roce there a pale one — and her 

eyes — 
I liwthe moonlight glitter on their tears — 
Aid lome few drops of that distressful rain 
FfO OB my face, and her long ringlets 

mored, 
DisopiBg and beaten by the breeze, and 

brush'd 
My fidlen forehead in their to and fro, 690 
For IB the sudden anj^ish of her heart 
Loosed from their simple thrall they had 

flow'd abroad, 
Aad floated on and parted round her neck, 
lUialii« her form Wf way. She. when I 

woke, 
Something she ask'd, I know not what, and 

ask'd, 
Uaaaswer'd, since I spake not; for the 

sound 
Of that dear yoioe so musically low, 
Aad DOW first heard with any sense of pain, 
As it had taken life away before, 699 

Choked all the syllables that strove to rise 
From my full hMrt. 

Hie blissful lover, too, 
From his great hoard of happiness dis- 

UU'd 
Some drops of solace; like a vain rich 



Because my own was darken'd? Why 



That, haTing alwajrs prospered in the world, 
Foldhig his nands, deals comfortable words 
To hearts wounded for ever; yet, in truth. 
Fair speech was his and delicate of phrase. 
Falling in whispers on the sense, adaress'd 
More to the inward than the outward ear. 
As rain of the midsummer midnight soft, 
fiearee- h eard, recalling fragrance and the 

green 711 

Of the dead spring: but mine was wholly 

dead. 
No bud, no leaf, no flower, no fruit for me. 
Tet who had done, or who had suffer'd 

wrong? 
Asd whr was I to darken their pure love ? 
If^ as I found, they two did love each 

other. 



was 



I 



To cross between their happy star and 
them ? 

To stand a shadow by their shining doors. 

And vex them vrith my darkness ? Did I 
love her ? 7»o 

Ye know that I did love her; to this pre- 
sent 

My fuU-orb'd love has waned not. Did I 
love her, 

And could I look upon her tearful eyes ? 

What had she done to weep ? Why should 
she weep ? 

innocent of spirit — let my heart 
Break rather — whom the gentlest airs of 

heaven 
Should kiss with an unwonted gentleness. 
Her love did murder mine ? What then ? 

She deem'd 

1 wore a brother's mind; she call'd me 

brother. 
She told me all her love; she shall not 
weep. 730 

The brightness of a burning thought, 

awhile 
In battle with the glooms of my dark will, 
Mooulike emerged, and to itself lit up 
There on the depth of an unfathom'd woe 
Reflex of action. Starting up at once. 
As from a dismal dream of my own death, 
I, for I loved her, lost my love in Love; 
I, for I loved her, graspt the hand she 

loved, 
And laid it in her own, and sent my cry 
Thro' the blank night to Him who loving 

made 740 

The happy and the unhappy love, that He 
Would hold the hand of blessing over 

them, 
Lionel, the happy, and her, and her, his 

bride I 
Let them so love that men and boys may 

wyi 
* Lo I how they love each other I ' till their 

love 
Shall ripen to a proverb, unto all 
Known, when their faces are forgot in the 

land — 
One golden dn>am of love, from which may 

death 
Awake them with heaven's music in a life 
More living to some happier happiness, 750 
Swallowing its precedent in victory. 



39' 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



And as for me, Camilla, as for me, — 
The dew of tears is an unwholesome dew, 
Thej will but sicken the sick plant the 

more. 
Deem that 1 love thee bat as brothers do, 
So shalt thou love me still as sisters do; 
Or if thou dream aught farther, dream but 

how 
I could have loved thee, had there been 

none else 
To love as lovers, loved again by thee. 

Or this, or somewhat like to this, I 

spake, 760 

When I beheld her weep so ruefully; 
For sure my love should ne'er indue the 

front 
And mask of Hate, who lives on others' 

moans. 
Shall Love pledge Hatred in her bitter 

draughts. 
And batten on her poisons ? Love forbid I 
Love passeth not the threshold of cold 

Hate, 
And Hate is strange beneath the roof of 

Love. 
O Love, if thou be'st Love, dry up these 

tears 
Shed for the love of Love; for tho' mine 

image. 
The subject of thy power, be cold in her. 
Yet, like cold snow, it melteth in the 

source 771 

Of these sad tears, and feeds their down- 
ward flow. 
So Love, arraigned to judgment and to 

death. 
Received unto himself a part of blame. 
Being guiltless, as an innocent prisoner, 
Who, when the woful sentence hath been 

past. 
And all the clearness of his fame hath 

gone 
Beneath the shadow of the curse of man. 
First faUs asleep in swoon, wherefrom 

awaked. 
And looking round upon bis tearful friends. 
Forthwith and in his agony conceives 781 
A shameful sense as of a cleaving crime — 
For whence without some guilt should such 

g^ef be? 

So died that hour, and fell into the 
abysm 
Of forms outworn, but not to me outworn. 



Who never bail'd another — was thers 

one? 
There might bo one — one other, worth the 

life 
That made it sensible. 80 that hoor died 
Like odor rapt into the win|;ed wind 
Borne into aUen lands and nr away. 790 

There be some hearts so airily hwltg that 

they. 
They — when their love is wreek'd — if 

Love can wreck — 
On that sharp ridge of ntnuMt doom ride 

highly 
Above the perilous seas of Change and 

Chance, 
Nay, more, hcdd out the lights of cheerfol- 

ness; 
As the tall ship, that many a dreary year 
Knit to some oismal sandbank far at aea. 
All thro' the livelong hours of utter dark. 
Showers slanting li^t upon the doloroiis 

wave. 
For me — what light, what gleam on those 

black ways 800 

Where Love could walk with banish'd Hope 

no more ? 

It was ill-done to part yon, sisters fair; 
Love's arms were wreath'd about the neck 

of Hope, 
And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in 

her breath 
In that close kiss, and drank her whisper'd 

tales. 
They said that Love would die when Hope 

was g^ne. 
And Love moum'd long, and sorrowed after 

Hope; 
At last she sought out Memory, and they 

trod 
The same old paths where Love had walk'd 

with Hope, 
And Memory fed the soul of Love with 

tears. 810 



II 



From that time forth I would not see her 

more; 
But many weary moons I lived alone — 
Alone, and in the heart of the g^at forest. 
Sometimes upon the hills beside the sea 
All day I watch'd the floating isles of 

shade, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



a93 



OD the shore, upon the 



iBMBsibly I drew her name, until 
The BMUung of the letters shot into 
My bnin; anon the wanton billow wash'd 
TMOi oTer» till they laded like my love. 
The hollow eaToms heard me — the black 

biooks 
Of the nid^fbrest heard me — the soft 

wiiidsy 
LadflB with thistle-down and seeds of 

flowers, 
Fkased in their oourse to hear me, for my 

▼oiee 
Was all of thee; the merry linnet knew 



The sqairrel knew me, and the dragon-fly 
Shot bj me like a flash of purple fire. 
The rough brier tore my bleeding palms; 

tM hemlock. 
Blow -high, did strike my forehead as I 

past; 19 

Tet trod I not the wild-flower in my path, 
Nor braised the wild-bird's egg. 

Was this the end ? 
Why grew we then together in one plot ? 
Why fed we from one fountain ? drew one 

son? 
Why were oar mothers braoehes of one 

stem? 
Why were we one in all things, save in 

that 
Where to have been one had been the cope 

and erown 
Of an I hoped and fear'd ? — if that same 



Were father to this distance, and that one 
Vaonteoarier to this double t if Affection 
Liring slew Love, and Sympathy heVd 
oat JO 

The boeom-sepolchre of Sympathy ? 

Chiefly I sought the cavern and the hill 
Where last we roam'd together, for the 

sound 
Of the loud stream was pleasant, and the 

wind 
Came wooingly with woodbine smells. 

Sometimes 
An day I sat within the cavern-mouth. 
Fixing my eyes on those three cypress- 



Thai spired above the wood; and with 
mad hand 



Tearing the bright leaves of the ivy-screen, 
I cast them in toe noisy brook beneath, 40 
And watch'd them till they vanish'd from 

my sight 
Beneath the oower of wreathed eglantines. 
And all the fragments of the living rock, — 
Huge blocks, which some old trembling of 

the world 
Had loosen'd from the mountain, till they 

fell 
Half -digging their own graves, — these in 

my agony 
Did I make bare of all the golden moss, 
Wherewith the dashing runnel in the spring 
Had liveried them all over. In my brain 
The spirit seem'd to flag from thought to 

thought, so 

As moonlight wandering thro' a mist; my 

blo<xl 
Crept like marsh drains thro' all my lan- 
guid limbs; 
The motions of my heart seem'd far within 

me, 
Unfreqnent, low, as tho' it told its pulses; 
And yet it shook me, that my frame would 

shudder. 
As if 't were drawn asunder by the rack. 
But over the deep graves of Hope and 

Fear, 
And all the broken palaces of the past. 
Brooded one master-passion evermore. 
Like to a low-hung and a fiery sky 60 

Above some fair metropolis, earth- 

shock'd, — 
Hung round with ragged rims and burning 

folds, — 
Embathing all with wild and woful hues. 
Great hills of ruins, and collapsed masses 
Of thunder-shaken columns indistinct. 
And fused together in the tyrannous 

light - 
Ruins, the ruin of all my life and me I 

Sometimes I thought Camilla was no 

more; 
Some one had told me she was dead, and 

ask'd 
If I would see her burial. Then I seem*d 
To rise, and through the forest -shadow 

borne 71 

With more than mortal swiftness, I ran 

down 
The steepy sea-bank, till I came upon 
The rear of a procession, curving round 
The silver-sheeted bay, in front of which 



294 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



Six stately yirgins, all in white, upbare 
A broad earth-eweeping pall of whitest 

lawn, 
Wreathed round the bier with garlands. In 

the distance, 
From out the yellow woods npon the hill 
Look'd forth Uie smnmit and the pinnacles 
Of a gray steeple — thence at intervals St 
A low bell tolling. All the pageantry. 
Save those six virgins which upheld the 

bier. 
Were stoled from head to foot in flowing 

black; 
One walk'd abreast with me, and veil'd his 

brow. 
And he was load in weeping and in praise 
)f her we foUow'd. A strong sympathy 
Shook all my sool; I flung myself upon him 
In tears and cries. I told him all my love, 
How I had loved her from the first; 

whereat 90 

He shrank and howl'd, and from his brow 

drew back 
His hand to push me from him, and the 

face. 
The very face and form of Lionel 
Flash'd thro' my eyes into my innermost 

brain. 
And at his feet I seem'd to faint and fall. 
To fall and die away. I could not rise, 
Albeit I strove to follow. They past on, 
The lordly phantasms f in their floating 

folds 
They past and were no more; but I had 

fallen 99 

Prone by the dashing runnel on the g^rass. 

Alway the inaudible, invisible thought. 
Artificer and subject, lord and slave, 
Shaped by the audible and visible. 
Moulded the audible and visible. 
All crisped sounds of wave and leaf and 

wind 
Flatter'd the fancy of my fading brain; 
The cloud-pavilion*d element, the wood. 
The mountain, the three cypresses, the 

cave. 
Storm, sunset, glows and glories of the 

moon 
Below black firs, when silent - creeping 

winds I to 

Laid the long night in silver streaks and 

bars, 
Were wrought into the tissue of my dream. 
The meanings in the forest, the loud brook, 



Cries of the partridge like a mstj key 
Tnm'd in a lock, owl-whoop and dorfaawk* 

whirr 
Awoke me not, bnt were a part of sleeps 
And voices in the distance calling to me 
And in my vision bidding me dream on. 
Like XHind. without the twilight lealm ot 

dreams. 
Which wander round the bases of the hiUs, 
And murmur at the low-dropt eaves of 

sleep, tax 

Half-entenng the portals. Oftentimes 
The vision had fair prelude, in the end 
Opening on darkness, stately vestibmles 
To caves and shows of death — whether the 

mind. 
With some revenge — even to itself un- 
known — 
Made strange division of its suffering 
With her, whom to have suffering view'd 

had been 
Extremest pain; or that the elear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being blunted in the present, grew at 

length 130 

Prophetical and prescient of whate'er 
The future had in store; or that which 

most 
Enchains belief, the sorrow of my spirit 
Was of so wide a compass it took in 
All I had loved, and my dull agony. 
Ideally to her transferred, became 
Ang^uish intolerable. 

The day waned; 
Alone I sat with her. About my brow 
Her warm breath floated in the utterance 
Of silver- chorded tones; her lips were 

sunder'd 140 

With smiles of tranquil bliss, which broke 

in light 
Like morning from her eyes — her eloquent 

eyes — 
As I have seen them many a hundred 

times — 
Fill'd all with pure clear fire, thro' mine 

down rain'd 
Their spirit-searching splendors. As a 

vision 
Unto a hag^gard prisoner, iron-stay'd 
In damp and dismal dungeons uuderground. 
Confined on points of faith, when strength 

is shocked 
With torment, and expectancy of worse 
Upon the morrow, thro' the ragged walls, 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



a9S 



Jdt mamwwatm before his half-shut eyes, 151 
Cosnea in mwn him in the dead of night, 
Jjid with lot axeess of sweetness and of 

awe, 

the heart tremUe, and the sight mn 



UpoB hie steely gyres; so those fair eyes 
Smm oa ay dimmess, forms which ever 

stood 
Within the magic cirque of memory, 
lariaihle hot deathless, waiting still 
The edict of the will to reassume 
The semblance of those rare realities 160 
Of which they were the mirrors. Now the 

light 
Which was their life burst through the 

clond of thought 
Keen, irrepreatible. 

It was a room 
Within the snmmer-house of which I spake, 
Hung round with paintings of the sea, and 



A Teseel in mid-ocean, her heaved prow 
Cbn>berm|, the mmst bent and the ravin 

wind 
In her sail roaring. From the outer day. 
Betwixt the dose-set ivies came a broad 
And solid beam of isolated light, 170 

Crowded with driving atomies, and fell 
Slanting upon that picture, from prime 

youth 
Well-known, well-loved. She drew it long 

ago 
Forthgazing on the waste and open sea, 
One mommg when the npblown billow 



Shoreward beneath red clouds, and I had 

pour'd 
Into the shadowing pencil's naked forms 
Color and life. It was a bond and seal 
Of friendship, spoken of with tearful smiles; 
A monument of childhood and of love; 180 
Tlie poesy of childhood, my lost love 
Symboird in storm. We gazed on it to- 
gether 
In mute and glad remembrance, and each 

heart 
Grew closer to the other, and the eye 
Was riveted and charm-bound, gazing like 
The Indian on a still-eyed snake, low- 

cooch'd — 
A beantv which is death; when all at once 
That pamted vessel, as with inner life. 
Began to heave upon that painted sea. 



An earthquake, my loud heart-beats, made 
the ground 190 

Reel under us, and all at once, soul, life 
And breath and motion, past and flow'd 

away 
To those unreal billows. Round and ronnd 
A whirlwind caught and bore us; mighty 

Rapid and vast, of hissing spray wind- 
driven 
Far thro' the dizzy dark. Aloud she 

shriek'd; 
My heart was cloven with pain; I wound 

my arms 
About her; we whirled giddily; the vrind 
Sung, but I clasp'd her without fear. Her 

weight 
Shrank in my grasp, and over my dim 

eyes, aoo 

And parted lips which drank her breath, 

down-hung 
The jaws of Death. I, groaning, from me 

flung 
Her empty phantom; all the sway and 

whirl 
Of the storm dropt to windless calm, and I 
Down wclter'd thro' the dark ever and 

ever. 



Ill 



I came one day and sat among the stones 
Strewn in the entry of the moaning cave; 
A morning air, sweet after rain, ran over 
The rippling levels of the lake, and blew 
Coolness and moisture and sJl smells of 

bud 
And foliage from the dark and dripping 

woods 
Upon my fever'd brows that shook and 

throbb'd 
From temple unto temple. To what height 
The day had grown I know not. Then 

came on me 
The hollow tolling of the bell, and all 10 
The vision of the oier. As heretofore 
I walk'd behind with one who veil'd his 

brow. 
Methonght by slow degrees the sullen bel! 
Toll'd onicker, and the breakers on tha 

shore 
Sloped into lender surf. Those that went 

with me. 
And those that held the bier before my 

face, 



296 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



rith one spirit round aboat the bay, 
rifter steps; and while I walkd 



Moved with 
Trod swifter 

¥rith these 

Li marvel at that gradual change, I thought 
Four bells instead of one began to rin^, »o 
Fonr merry bells, four merry mamage- 

bells. 
In clanging cadence jangling peal on 

peal — 
A long loud clash of rapid marriage-bells. 
Then those who led the van, and those in 

rear, 
Rush'd into dance, and like wild Baccha- 
nals 
Fled onward to the steeple in the woods. 
I, too, was borne along and felt the blast 
Beat on my heated eyelids. All at once 
The front rank made a sudden halt; the 

bells 
Lapsed into frightful stillness; the surge 

feU 30 

From thunder into whispers; those six 

maids 
With shrieks and ringing laughter on the 

sand 
Threw down the bier; the woods upon the 

hill 
Waved with a sudden gust that sweeping 

down 
Took the edges of the pall, and blew it far 
Until it hung, a little silver cloud 
Over the sounding seas. I tum'd; my 

heart 
Shrank in me, like a snowflake in the hand. 
Waiting to see the settled countenance 39 
Of her I loved, adom'd with fading flowers. 
But she from out ber death-like chrysalis. 
She from her bier, as into fresher life, 
My sister, and my cousin, and my love, 
Leapt lightly clad in bridal white — her 

hair 
Studded with one rich Provence rose — a 

light 

Of smiling welcome round her lips — her 

eyes 
And cheeks as bright as when she climb'd 

the hUl. 
One band she reach'd to those that came 

behind. 
And while I mused nor yet endured to 

take 
So rich a prize, the man who stood with 

me so 

Stept gaily forward, throwing down his 

robes. 



And daspt her hand in bis. Again the beDi 
Jangled and olang'd; again the stormy smf 
Craui'd in the shingle; and the whizliii^ 

ront 
Led by those two msh'd into duee, and 

fled 
Wind-footed to the steeple in the woodsy 
Till they were swallowed in the leafy 

bowers, 
And I stood sole beside the vaeant bier. 

There, there, my latest yisioa — then the 
event I 



IV 

THE GOLDEN SUPPER* 
{A i uiAer s^u mJ ht ) 

He flies the event; he leaves the event to 

me. 
Poor Julian — how he msh'd away; the 

beUs, 
Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and 

heart — 
Bnt cast a parting glance at me, yon saw. 
As ^o should say < Continue.' Well, he 

had 
One golden hour — of triumph shall I say ? 
Sola^ at least — before he left his home. 

Would you had seen him in that honr of 

his! 
He moved thro' all of it majesUcally — 
Restrain'd himself quite to the close — but 

now — 10 

Whether they toere his lady*s marriage- 
bells. 
Or prophets of them in his fantasy, 
I never ask'd; but Lionel and the girl 
Were wedded, and our Julian came again 
Back to his mother's house among the 

pines. 
But these, their gloom, the mountains and 

the Bay, 
The whole land weigh'd him down as iEtna 

does 
The Giant of Mythology; he would go. 
Would leave the land for ever, and had 

g^ne 

1 This poem is founded npon a story in Bo<y 
caocio. See Introduction, p. 281. 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



297 



Bmnijf Wi for a idiifper, ' 60 not yet,' m 
8.^ «^_^ ai«n.l,-«it 

Bjy tt^ wlueh foUow'd — bat of this I 



As of the TisioiiB that he told — the event 
iHuMod baek opon them in his after life, 
Amd partly maoo them — tho' he knew it 



And thos he stay'd and would not look 

at her — 
Ho^ Boi for months; but, when the eleventh 

moon 
After their marriage lit the lover's Bay, 
Bm*i yet once more the tolliug beU, «>d 

said, 
' Wonld yoo eonld toll me out of life ! ' but 

foond-— so 

All aoftly as his mother broke it to him — 
A crueller reason than a crazy ear 
For that low knell tolling his lady dead — 
Dead — and had lain three dajrs without a 

pulse; 
AH that look'd on her had pronounced her 

dead. 
And so they bore her — for in Julian's land 
They never nail a dumb head up in elm — 
Bore her free-faced to the free airs of 

heaven, 
Aad laid her in the vault of her own kin. 



What did he then ? not die — he is here 

and hale — 40 

Not plonge headforemost from the moun- 

tam there, 
Aad leave the name of Lover's Leap, not 

he. 
He knew the meaning of the whisper now, 
Tbooght that he knew it. ' This, I sUy 'd 

for this; 

Love, I hsve not seen you for so long f 
Now, BOW, will I go down into the grave, 

1 wUl be all alone with all I love. 

And kiss her on the lips. She is his no 

more; 
Tlie dead returns to me, and I go down 49 
To kiss the dead.' 

The fancy sUrr'd him so 
He roee and went, and, entering the dim 

vault 
Aad making there a sudden light, beheld 
Ail round about him that which all will 



The light was but a flash, and went again. 
Then at the far end of the vault he saw 
His lady with the moonlight on her face; 
Her breast as in a shadow-prison, bars 
Of black and bands of suver, which the 

moon 
Struck from an open grating overhead 
High in the wall, and all the rest of her 60 
Drown'd in the gloom and horror of the 

vanlt. 

' It was my wish,' he said, < to pass, to 

sleep. 
To rest, to be with her — till the great day 
Peal'd on us with that music which rights 

all. 
And raised us hand in hand.' And kneel- 
ing there 
Down in the dreadful dust that onoe was 

man, 
< Dust,' as he said, < that onoe was loving 

hearts. 
Hearts that had beat with such a love as 

mine — 
Not such as mine, no, nor for such as her, — 
He softly put his arm about her neck 70 
And kiss*d her more than once, till helpless 

death 
And silence made him bold — nay, but I 

wrong bim. 
He reverenced his dear lady even in death; 
But, placing his true hand upon her heart, 
' O you warm heart,' he moan'd, * not even 

death 
Can chill you all at once ' — then, starting, 

thought 
His dreams had come again. ' Do I wake 

or sleep ? 
Or am I made immortal, or my love 
Mortal once more 7 ' It beat — the heart 

— it beat; 79 

Faint — but it beat; at which his own began 
To pulse with such a vehemence that it 

drown'd 
The feebler motion underneath his hand. 
But when at last bis doubts were satisfied 
He raised her softly from the sepulchre. 
And, wrapping her all over with the cloak 
He came in, and now striding fast, and 

now 
Sitting awhile to rest, but evermore 
Holding his golden burthen in his arms. 
So bore her thro' the solitary land 
Back to the mother's house where she was 

born. •• 



TgH 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



There the good mother't kindly minister- 

mg, 
With hall a nieht't appliances, xecall'd 
Her flntteringlife. She rais'd an eve that 

ask'd 

* Where ? ' till the things familiar to her 

yoath 
Had made a silent answer; then she spoke 

* Here I and how came I here ? ' and leAm- 

infi^it— . 
Fhey told her somewhat rashly, as I 

think—- 
At once began to wander and to wail, 

* Ay, but you know that yon must give me 

back. 
Send I bid him come;' but Lionel was 

away — loo 

Stong by hia loss bad vamsh'd, noae knew 

where. 

* He casts me out,' she wept, ' and goes ' — 

a wail 
That, seeming something, yet was nothing, 

bom 
Not from believing mind but shattered 

nerve. 
Yet haunting Julian, as her own reproof 
At some precipitance in her burial. 
Then, when her own true spirit had retnm'd, 
*0, yes, and you,' she said, 'and none but 

you ? 
For you have given me life and love again. 
And none but you yourself shall tell him 
of it, I to 

And you shall give me back when he re- 
turns.' 

* Stay then a little,' answer'd Julian, * here. 
And keep yourself, none knowing, to your- 
self; 

And I will do yonr will. I may not stay, 
No, not an hour; but send me notice of 

him 
When he returns, and then will 1 return. 
And I will make a solemn offering of you 
To him you love.' And faintly she re- 

flied, 
will do your will, and none shall 
know.' 

Not know? with such a secret to be 
known. 120 

But all their house was old and loved them 
both, 

Ind all the house had known the loves of 
both, 

Had died almost to serve them any way. 



And all the land was waste «id soiituj. 
And then he rode away; bat after this^ 
An hour or two, Camilla's travafl eame 
Upon her, and that day a boy was bon^ 
Heir of his fiuM and land, to LioneL 

And thus oar lonely lover xode awaj. 
And pausing at a hostel in a marsh, 110 
There fever seised npon him. Myself was 

then 
Travelling that land, and meant to rest aa 

hoar; 
Ajid sitting down to snoh a base repast, 
«It makes me ansry yet to speak of it ^- 
I heard a groaning overhead, and elimb'd 
m mcdler'd sUi«-£«r ert„jthmg wm 

vile — 
And in a loft, with none to wait on him. 
Found, as it seem'd, a skeleton alone, 
Baving of dead men's dost and beatiug 

hearts. 

A dismal hostel in a dismal land, t4» 
A flat m a lari a n world of reed and rash I 
But there from fever and my ears of him 
Sprang up a friendship that may help as 

yet. 
For while we roam'd along the dreaiy 

coast. 
And waited for her message, piece by 

piece 
I learnt the drearier story of his life; 
And, tho* he loved and honor'd Lionel, 
Found that the sudden wail his lady niade 
Dwelt in his fancy. Did he know her worth. 
Her beauty even ? should he not be taught, 
Even by the price that others set upon it, 151 
The value of that jewel he had to gus^ ? 

Suddenly came her notice and we past, 
I with our lover to his native Bay. 

This love is of the brain, the mind, the 

soul; 
Tliat makes the sequel pure, tho' some of 

us 
Beginning at the sequel know no more. 
Not such am I; and yet I say the bird 
That will not hear my call, however sweety 
But if my neighbor whistle answers him — 
What matter? there are others in the 

wood. 161 

Tet when I saw her — and I thought him 

crazed, 
Tho' not with such a craziness as needs 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



299 



A •dH Mid keeper — thoee dark eyes of 



O9 SBok daik ejet I and not her eyes alone, 
all frooi these to where she touch'd on 






a ermiiness as Julian's look*d 
than one diTine apology. 



8p tweetly and so modestly she came 169 
T# gva0t ns, her yoong hero in her arms I 
* Kiss hiDy' she said. * Yoa gave me life 

again. 
He, hot for yon, had never seen it once. 
Hia other father you ! Kiss him, and 

then 
Fe^grre him, if his name be Julian too.' 

Talk of lost hopes and broken heart ! his 



8«oi such a flame into his fmce, I knew 

sodden rivid pleasure hit him there. 



But he was all the more resoWed to go, 
Aad sent at once to Lionel, praying him. 
By that great love they both had Imme the 
dead, 180 

To eome and rerel for one hour with him 
Before he left the land for eyermore; 
And then to friends — they were not many 

— who lived 
Seatteringly about that lonely land of his. 
And bade them to a banquet of ftirewells. 

And Julian made a solemn feast; I never 
Sat at a costlier, for all round his hall 
From column on to column, as in a wood, 
Not such as here — an equatorial one, 
Great earlands swung and blossom'd; and 

Deneath, 190 

Heirlooms, and ancient miracles of art. 
Chalice and salver, wines that, heaven knows 

when. 
Had sQck'd the fire of some forsotten sun. 
And kept it thro' a hundred years of 

gteom, 
Tet glowing in a heart of ruby — cups 
Where nymph and god ran ever round in 

gold — 
Others of glass as costly — some with gems 
Movable and resettable at will, 
And trebling all the rest in value — Ah 

heavens f 
Why need I tell you all ? — -suffice to say 
That whatsoever such a house as his, mi 
Aad his was old, has in it rare or fair 



Was brought before the g^est. And they, 

the guests, 
Wonder'd at some strange light in Julian's 

eyes — 
I told you that he had his golden hour — 
And such a feast, ill-suited as it seem'd 
To such a time, to Lionel's loss and his 
And that resolved self-exile from a land 
He never would revisit, such a feast 
So rich, so strange, and stranger even than 

rich. 
But rich as for the nuptials of a king. 



aio 



And stranger yet, at one end of the 
hall 
Two great funereal curtains, looping down. 
Parted a little ere they met the floor. 
About a picture of his lady, taken 
Some years before, and falling hid the 




e. 



And just above the parting was a lamp; 
So the sweet figure folded round with night 
Seem'd stepping out of darkness with a 
smile. 

Well, then — our solemn feast — we ate 
and drank, 120 

And might — the wines being of such no- 
bleness — 
Have jested also, but for Julian's eyes, 
And something weird and wild about it 

all. 
What was it ? for our lover seldom spoke. 
Scarce touch'd the meats, but ever and 

anon 
A priceless goblet with a priceless wine 
Arising show'd he drank beyond his use; 
And when the feast was near an end, he 
said: 

'There is a custom in the Orient, 

friends — 
I read of it in Persia — when a man «)» 
Will honor those who feast with him, he 

brings 
And shows them whatsoever he accounts 
Of all his treasures the most beautiful. 
Gold, jewels, arms, whatever it may be. 
This custom — ' 

Pausing here a moment, all 
The guests broke in upon him with meeting 

hands 
And cries about the banquet — ' Beautiful I 
Who eould desire more beauty at a feast ? * 



300 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



The loTer answer'd: * There is more than 
one 339 

Here sitting who desires it. Land me not 
Before my time, but hear me to the close. 
This custom steps yet farther when the 

enest 
Is loyed and honor'd to the uttermost. 
For after he hath shown him rems or eold, 
H. hri-,5. «d «t. before *Ln In'Sch 

guise 
That which is thrice as beautiful as these, 
The beauty that is dearest to his heart — 
** O my heart's lord, would I could show 

you," he says, 
* Etcu my heart too." And I propose to- 
night 249 
To show you what is dearest to my heart. 
And my heart too. 

* But solve me first a doubt 
I knew a man, nor many years aeo; 
He had a Uthf ul servant, one who loved 
His master more than all on earth beside. 
He falling sick, and seeming dose on 

death, 
His master would not wait until he died, 
i^nt bade his menials bear him from the 

door. 
And leave him in the public way to die. 
I knew another, not so long ago, 
Who found the dying servant, took him 

home, 260 

And fed, and cherish'd him, and saved his 

life. 
I ask you now, should thk. first master 

claim 
His service, whom does it belong to ? him 
Who thrust him out, or him who saved his 

life?' 

This question, so flung down before the 

guests. 
And balanced either way by each, at 

length 
When some were doubtful how the law 

would hold, 
Was handed over by consent of all 
To one who had not spoken, LioneL 

Fair speech was his, and delicate of 
phrase. 270 

And he, beginning languidly — his loss 
Weigh'd on him yet — bnt warming as he 

went. 
Glanced at the point of law, to pass it by. 



Affirming that as loog as either lived. 
By all tM laws of love and gvatefafauM^ 
Tne service of the one so saved was duo 
All to the saver — adding, with a smile. 
The first for many ween — a aemi-eDule 
As at a strong conclusion — ' body and soul 
And life and limbs, all hii to woik hie 
wilL* ifc 

Then Julian made a seeiet sin to me 
To bring Camilla down before them alL 
And crossing her own jneture as she eams^ 
And lookine as mueh lovelier as herself 
Is lovelier Uian all others — on her head 
A diamond circlet, and from nnder this 
A veil, that seem'd m> more than gilded 

air. 
Flying by each fine ear, an Eastern ganae 
With seeds of gold — so^ with that graoe of 

hers, 389 

Slow-moving as a wave against the wind. 
That flings a mist behind it in the sun — 
And bearing high in arms the migh^ babe^ 
The younger JulUn. who hiiDMlf wm 

crown a 
With roses, none so rosy as himself — 
And over sll her babe and her the jewela 
Of many generations of his house 
Sparkled and flash'd, for he had deek'd 

them out 
As for a solemn sacrifice of love — 
So she came in — I am long in telling it, 
I never yet beheld a thing so strange, 300 
Sad, sweet, and strange together — floated 

in — 
While all the guests in mute amaiement 

rose — 
And slowly pacing to the middle hall, 
Before the board, there paused and stood, 

her breast 
Hard-heaving, and her eyes upon her feet. 
Not daring yet to glance at LioneL 
But him she earned, him nor lights nor 

feast 
Dazed or amazed, nor eyes of men; who 

cared 
Only to use his own, and staring wide 
And hungering for the gilt and jewell'd 

world 310 

About him, look'd, as he is like to prove. 
When Julian goes, the lord of all he saw. 

'My g;ae.t8/ «iid JuHm. 'yon .re hoD- 
or d now 
Even to the uttermost; in her behold 



THE LOVER'S TALE 



301 



Of all wj ireMUOt the most beaatifal, 
Of aD things upon earth the dearest to 






waTuig OS a sign to seat onrseWes, 
Lad his dear kdr to a chair of state. 
Aad I, hr Lionel sitting, saw hb f aoe 
File, ana dead ashes and all fire aeain sao 
TUee in a seeond* felt him tremble too, 
Aad heaid him muttering, 'So like, so 

like; 
She Bever had a sister. I knew none. 
Some eonsin of his and hers — O God, so 

like!' 
And then he suddenly ask'd her if she 

were. 
She shook, and cast her eyes down, and was 

dnmb. 
And then some other qaestion'd if she 



From te^ Und.. .ad ttm the did not 

Another, if the boy were hers; but she s>9 
To all their queries answer'd not a word. 
Which made the amazement more, till one 

of them 
Said, shuddering, < Her spectre I ' But his 



Replied, in half a whisper, * Not at least 
The spectre that will spesk if spoken to. 
Terrible pity, if one so beautiful 
Frore, as 1 almost dread to find her, 
dumb!' 

But Julian, sittmg by her, answer'd 
all: 
* She is but dumb, because in her you 



That faithful serrant whom we spoke 

about, 
Obedient to her seoond master now; 340 
Whidi will not last. I have here to-nigbt 

a guest 
80 bound to me by oommon love and loss — 
What I shall I bind him more ? in hb be- 
half. 
Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him 
That which of all things is the dearest to 

me, 
Kot only showing? and he himself pro- 

Bounoed 
That my rich gift b wholly mine to give. 

< Now all be dumb, and promise all of 
you 
Not to break in on what I say by word 



Or whisper, while I show you all my 

heart.' 350 

And then began the story of hb love 
As here to-day, but not so wordily — 
The passionate moment would not sufiPer 

that- 
Past thro' his vbions to the burial; thence 
Down to thb last strange hour in his own 

haU; 
And then rose up, and with him all hb 

guests 
Once more as by enchantment; all but 

he, 
Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again. 
And sat as if in chains — to whom he said: 

' Take my free gift, my cousin, for your 
wife; 360 

And were it only for the ^ver'a sake. 
And tho' she seem so like the one you 

lost. 
Yet cast her not awav so suddenly. 
Lest there be none left here to bring her 

back. 
I leave thb land for ever.' Here he ceased. 

Then taking hb dear lady by one hand. 
And bearing on one arm the noble babe, 
He slowly brought them both to Lionel. 
And there the widower husband and dead 

wife 
Rush*d each at each with a cry that rather 

seem'd 370 

For some new death than for a life re- 

new'd; 
Whereat the very babe began to waiU 
At once they tum*d, and caught and 

brought him in 
To their cmtfm'd circle, and, half killing 

him 
With kisses, round him closed and claspt 

again. 
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself 
From wife and child, and lifted up a face 
All over glowing with the sun of life. 
And love, and boundless thanks — the sight 

of thb 
So frighted our good friend that, turning 

to me 380 

And saying, 'It b over; let us go ' — 
There were our horses ready at the doors — 
We bade them no farewell, but mounting 

these 
He past for ever from hb native land; 
Ana I with liim, my Julian, back to mine. 



302 IDYLLS OF THE KING 

IDYLLS OF THE KING 

IN TWELVE BOOKS 
* Phs Regum Arthurus! — Joseph of Exbtbr 

The poet became interested in the Arthurian story lons^ before the first series of Ae 'IdyDi* 
was published. * The Lady of Shalott/ which appeared in 1832, is founded upon the lagvad 
which was later made the subject of * Lancelot sad £laine.' ' The Palaoe of Art * in the same 
Tolume contained an alluaon to * that deep- wounded child of Pendragpon,* or ' mythie UjImi^b 
deeply wounded son,' as it now reads. * (nr Gkdahad * and * Sir Lanoelot and Queen Chdnevov ' 
were printed in 1842, when the * Morte d* Arthur * was also g^yen to the world. This Isfeter poenn, 
afterwards incorporated in * The Passing of Arthur/ must have been written as eariy as 183Si, 
when Fitzgerald heard it read from manuscript (* Memoir/ vol. L p. 194). Landor also writaa 
under date of December 9, 1837 : * Yesterday a BIr. Moreton, a young man of rare judgmeaty 
read to me a manuscript by BIr. Tennyson, very different in style from his printed poems. The 
subject is the death of ArUiur. It is more Homeric than any poem of our time, and iiTals 
of the noblest parts of the Odyaoea * (Forster's ' Life of Landor,' iL 3j^). 

In 1857 the poet printed ' six trial-copies ' of * Elnid and Nimu6 : the True and the False,' 
taining the stories of * Enid ' and * Vivien/ afterwards revised for the edition of 1859. The copy 
of this book in the library of the British Museum is believed to be the * sole survivor ' of the six. 

There is a still earlier form of * Enid ' in the Forster Bequest Library of the South Kenaingw 
ton Museum, London, which appears to be a first proof of the poem as printed in the 1857 v<^ 
ume. In the same collection there is a volume of proof-sheets, the title-page of whieh reads : 
' The True and the False. Four Idylls of the King/ with the date 1859. It contains the four 
Idylls which, after further revision, were published the same year with the simpler title of * Idylb 
of the Kii^.' 

This first instalment of the 'Idylls' as finally published in July, 1859, included 'Enid/ 
' Vivien,' * Elaine,' and * Guinevere,' as they were then entitled. Ten thousand oc^ies were sold 
in about six weeks, and the critics were almost unanimous in their praise of the book. Amoi^ 
its warmest admirers was Prince Albert, who sent lus copy to the poet, asking him to write his 
name in it. The note continued : — 

* You would thus add a peculiar interest to the book contAining those beautiful songs, from 
the perusal of which I derived the greatest enjoyment. They quite rekindle the feeling with 
which the legends of King Arthur must have inspired the chivalry of old, whilst the graceful 
form in which they are presented blends those feelings with tlie softer tone of our present age.' 

In 1862, a new edition of the ' Idylls ' appeared, with the dedication to the memofy of the 
Prince, who died in December, 1861. 

In 1869, four more Idylls were brought out, — * The Coming of Arthur,' * The Holy Gr«il/ 
' Pelleas and Ettarre,' and * The Passing of Arthur,* in which, as already mentioned, the * Morte 
d^Arthur * of 1842 is incorporated. 

In 1872, * The Last Tournament ' (contributed to the ' Contemporary Review ' for December, 
1871) and * Qareth and Lynette ' appeared ; and in 1885 ' Balin and Balan/ the last of the series, 
was included in " Tiresias and Other Poems.' 

In 1884, * Enid,* already entitled * Geraint and Enid,' was divided into two parts (numbered L 
and n.), and in 1888 these parts received their present titles. The poems were now described 
as * twelve books,' and arranged in the order in which the author intended they should be read. 

In the order of publication the last Idyll (or the portion of it included in the * Morte d*Artfaur ' 
of 1842) was the first, followed successively by the third, fourth (these two, as just explained, being 
originally one), sixth, seventh, eleventh (as the five were arranged in 1859), first, eighth, ninth, 
twelfth) as arranged in 1869, the twelfth being the amplification of the ' Morte d' Arthur '), second, 
tenth, and fifth. ^ Nave and transept, aisle after ai^e. the Grothic minster has extended, until, 
with the addition of a cloister here and a chapel yonder, the structure stands complete.' Sted> 
man, from whose ' Victorian Poets ' we quote this, adds : — 

* It has g^wn insensibly, under the hands of one man who has gfiven it the best yean of his 
life, — but somewhat as Wolf conceived the Homeric poems to have g^wn, chant by chant, 
until the time came for the whole to be welded together in heroic form. ... It is the epic of 
chivalry, — the Christian ideal of chivalry which we have deduced from a barbaric source. -^ 



DEDICATION 



303 



of whtA kniglitliood alioiild be, rather than wlmt it really was ; bat 90 aldlfiilly 
of hi|^h uiiagiiiiiigi, faery speUa, fantaatio legends, and medueral splendors, that Uie 
wbola wmkt simiised with the Tennysonian glamor of gulden mist, seems like a chronicle illnmi- 
■■fesd bj ttfaidy hands, and often biases with Ught like that which flashed from the holy wizard** 
hotk. wnsn the ootsis were nnclasped. And, indeed, if this be not the greatest narratiye poem 
PiandiBe Lost,** what other English production are yon to name in its place ? Never 
Voitj as the grander portions of Milton*s epic, it is more evenly sustained and has no long 

while ** Ptoadise Lost " is justly declared to be a work of superhuman genins 
by dreary wastes of theology.' 




■jnoai 
UtOs 



For the origin and doTelopment of the story of the ' Idylls,* aeo * Studies in the Arthurian 
■d,' by John Rhys, M. A. (Oxford, 1801), * Tennyson's Idylls of the King and Arthurian 
from the lOth Century,* by M. W. Maocallum, U, A. (London, 1804), ' Essays on Lord Ten- 
^_ Va Idylls of the King,* by Harold Littledale, M. A. (London, 1803), ' The Growth of the 
iyDs of the Kine,* by Richard Jones. Ph. D.( Philadelphia, 1805), ' King Arthur and the Table 
■nd,* by W. W. Newell (Boston, 1807), etc For the allegory in the poems, see ' Studies in 
Idylls,' br Henry Elsdale (London, 1878), and the articles in the ' Contemporary Review * for 
r, 1870 (by liean Alford), and May, 1873 (by the editor), both of which were based on the 
post's own explanations. For general criticism, see particularly * Tennyson, his Art and Rela- 
tisa to Modem Life,* by Rev. Stopford A. Brooke (London and New York, 1804), in which pp. 255- 
aOI are devoted to the * Idylls,* and * The Poetry of Tennyson,* by Rev. Dr. Henry van I^ke (Sd 
%JU New York, 1802, pp. 138-106). For bibliographical and miscellaneous informatioii. see the 
* Handbook to the Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson,* by Morton Luce (London, 1805), ^ A Tso- 
nyaon Primer,' by William M. Dixon, Litt D. (London and New York, 1806), and Niooll and 
Ww'u* Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century.* voL ii. (London, 1806). The ' Bibliogra- 
nhy ol TannTSon,* by the author of * Tennysoniana * (R. H. Shepherd), published by subscription 
(London, 1806), though the most complete up to the present time (1808), is sometimes inaccurate. 
Maloty'a ' Morte Darthur,* from whicn the poet drew much of his material, is accessible in the 
*^obe' adHion (London and New York, revised ed. 1803), and in the ^Temple Classics ' edition 
■ " 1807). 

How modest, kindly, all-aocomplish'd, wise, 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly; 
Not t;waying to this faction or to that; » 
Not making his high place the lawless 

perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of 

years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless 

Ufe, 
Before a thonsand peering littlenesses. 
In that fierce light which beats upon a 

throne 
And blackens every blot; for where is he 
Who dares foreshadow for an only too 
A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his ? 
Or how should England dreaming of kii 

sons 30 

Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be. 
Laborious for her peonle and her poor — 
Voice in the ricn oawn of an ampler 

day — 
Far-sighted snmmooer of War and Waste 
To fniitf 111 strifes and rivalries of peaoe — ^ 



DEDICATION 

TliBSB to His Memory — linoe he held 

them dear, 
Perebanee as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears — 
ThM Idylls. 

And indeed he teems to me 
6enioe other than my king's ideal knight, 
*Wbo reverenced his conscienoe as his 

Whose glory was, redressing human wrong; 
Who sMke no slander, no, nor listcn'd to 

It; 
Who loved one only and who clave to 

her — ' to 

Her — over all whose realms to their last 

isle. 
Commingled with the gloom of inuninent 



The shadow of his loss drew like eclipse. 
Darkening the world. We have lost him ; 

be IS gone. 
We know him now; all narrow jealoosiet 
Am% mkntf and we tee him as he moved« 



3^ 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Sweet nature gflded bj the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince in- 
deed, 40 
Beyond all titles, and a household name. 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Grood. 

Break not, O woman's - heart, bnt still 

endure; 
Break not, for thou art royal, but endure. 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside thee that ye 

made 
One light together, but has past and leaves 
The Crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love, 
His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee. 
The love of all thy sons encompass thee, 50 
The love of all thy daughters cherish thee, 
The love of all thy people comfort thee. 
Till Grod's love set thee at his side again I 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 

Leodooran, the king of Cameliard, 

Had one fair daughter, and none other 

child; 
And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, 
Guinevere, and in her his one delight. 

For many a petty king ere Arthur came 
Ruled in this isle and, ever waging war 
Each upou other, wasted all the limd; 
And still from time to time the heathen 

host 
Swarm'd over-seas, and harried what was 

left. 
And so there grew great tracts of wilder- 
ness, 10 
Wherein the beast was ever more and 

more, 
But man was less and less, till Arthur came. 
I^'or first Aurelius lived and fought and 

died. 
And after him King Uther fought and died, 
But either fail'd to make the kingdom 

one. 
And after these King Arthur for a space, 
And thro' the puissance of bis Table 

Round, 
Drew all their petty princedoms under him, 
Their king and bead, and made a realm and 

reign'd. 



And thus the land oi Oamelkid 

waste, ao 

Thick with wet woods, and many a bwif 

therein. 
And none or few to scare or diaee the 

beast; 
So that wild dog and wolf and bo» ud 

bear 
Came nifht and day, and looted in the 

fields. 
And wallow'd in the gardens oi the King. 
And ever and anon the wolf would steal 
The children and devour, but now and tlm. 
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fieree 

teat 
To human sucklings; and the ehildzen^ 

housed 
In her foul den, there at their meat would 

growl, so 

And mock their foster-mother on foor feet. 
Till, straighten'd, they grew up to wolf-like 

men. 
Worse than the wolves. And 

dogran 

Groan'd for the Roman legions here anin 
And Cesar's eagle. Then his brother king, 
Urien, assail'd lum; last a heathen hoide. 
Reddening the sun ¥rith suK^e and earth 

¥riUi blood. 
And on the spike that split the mother's 

heart 
Spitting the child, brake on him, till, 

amazed, 39 

He knew not whither he should turn for aid. 

But — for he heard of Arthur newly 

crovrn'd, 
Tho' not without an uproar made by those 
Who cried, ' He is not Uther's son ' — the 

King 
Sent to him, saying, 'Arise, and help us 

thou ! 
For here between the man and beast we 

die.' 

And Arthur yet had done no deed of 
arms. 
But heard the call and came; and Guine- 
vere 
Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass; 
But since he neither wore on helm or shield 
The golden symbol of his kinglihood, y> 
But rode a simple knight among his knights. 
And many of these in richer arms than he. 
She saw him not, or mark'd not, if the saw. 



THE COMING OF ARTHUR 



305 



Obo UDOBg nmajf tho' hii face was bare. 
B«t Aztliiir» looJoDg downward as he past. 
Fait Um li|^ of her ejea into hb life 
Sauta OB the sodden, yet rode on, and 

pileh'd 
Hia iaata beade the forest. Then he drave 
Thm heathen; after, slew the beast, and 

laU'd 
Tka foieat, letting in the san, and made 60 
Bioad pathwajs for the hunter and the 

knight, 
Aad so retom'd. 

For while he linger'd there, 
A doubt that ever smoolder'd in the hearts 
Of those mat lords and barons of his realm 
Fbah'd fmh and into war; for most of 

CoDeasnnnff with a score of petty kinn. 
Made liead against him, crying: ' Who is 

he 
Thai he shoald role us ? who hath proTcn 

him 
Kaf Uther's son ? for lo I we look at him, 
Ana find nor fiuse nor bearing, limbs nor 

Toice, 70 

Are like to those of Uther whom we knew. 
Tina is the son of GorloYs, not the King; 
Tbia ia the son of Anton, not the King/ 

And Arthur, passing thence to battle, felt 
T^BTail, and throes and agonies of the life, 
Deairing to be join'd with Guinerere, 
And thinking as he rode: ' Her father said 
Tliat there between the man and beast they 



Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts 
Up to my throne and side by side with me ? 
What happiness to reign a lonely king, 81 
Vest — O ye stars that shudder over me, 

earth that soundest hollow under me, 
Vait with waste dreams ? for saving I be 

join'd 
To her that is the fairest under heaven, 

1 aeem as nothing in tbe mighty world, 
And eannot will my will nor work my work 
Wholly, nor make myself in mine o¥m 

realm 
Yietor and lord. But were I join'd ¥rith 

her, 
Thten might we live together as one life, 90 
And reigning with one will in everything 
Have power on this dark land to lighten it. 
Ami powar 00 this dead world to make it 



Thereafter — as he speaks who tells the 
tale — 
When Arthur reach'd a field of battle 

bright 
With pitcb'd pavilions of his foe, the world 
Was all so clear about him that he saw 
The sinallest rock far on tbe faintest hill, 
And even in high day the morning star. 99 
So when the King had set his banner broad, 
At once from either side, with trumpet- 
blast, 
And shouts, and clarions shrilling unto 

blood, 
The long-lanced battle let their horses run. 
And now the barons and the kings pre- 
vailed, 
And now the King, as here and there that 

war 
Went swayinff ; but the Powers who walk 

the wond 
Made lightnings and great thunders over 

him. 
And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main 

might. 
And mightier of his hands with every blow. 
And le^ing all his knighthood threw the 
kinn, no 

Cari^os, Urien, Cradlemont of Wales, 
Claudius, and Clariance of Northumber- 
land, 
The King Brandagoras of Latangor, 
With Anguisant of Erin, Morganore, 
And Lot of Orkney. Then, l^fore a voice 
As dreadful as the shout of one who sees 
To one who sins, and deems himself alone 
And all tbe world asleep, they swerved and 

brake 
Flying, and Arthur call'd to stay the 

brands 
That hack*d among the flyers, ' Ho ! they 
yield ! ' lao 

So like a painted battle the war stood 
Silenced, the living quiet as the dead. 
And in Uie heart of Arthur joy was lord. 
He laugh'd upon his warrior whom he loved 
And honor*d most. ' Thou dost not doubt 

me King, 
So well thine arm hath wrought for me to- 
day.' 
' Sir and my liege,' he cried, ' the fire of 

God 
Descends upon thee in the battle-field. 
I know thee for my King ! ' Whereat the 

two. 
For each bad warded either in the fight, 



$oS 



IDYLLS OF THE KING 



Sware on the field of death a deathless 

love. 131 

And Arthur said, ' Man's word b God in 



man; 



Let chance what will, I trust thee to the 
death.' 

Then quickly from the f oughten field he 

sent 
Ulfius, and Brastias, and Bedivere, 
His new-made knights, to King Leodogran, 
Saying, 'If I in aught have served thee 

well, 
Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife.' 

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in 
heart 
Debating — ' How should I that am a king, 
However much he bolp me at my need, 141 
Give my one daughter saving to a king. 
And a king's son ? ' — lifted his voice, and 

call'd 
A hoary roan, his chamberlain, to whom 
He trusted all things, and of him required 
His counsel: 'Knowest thou aught of Ar- 
thur's birth ? ' 

Then spake the hoary chamberlain and 

said: 
' Sir King, there be but two old men that 

know; 
And each is twice as old as I; and one 149 
Is Merlin, the wise man th